


Mistakes

by MintJam



Series: Mistakes [1]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Aftercare, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Barely Consensual, Caning, Dark, Dom/sub, Domestic Violence, Double Anal Penetration, Double Penetration, Dubious Consent, Finally, Hand Jobs, Hard caning, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Narcissism, Paddling, Rough Sex, Sexual Coercion, Shibari, Sounding, Spanking, mentions of drug addiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:53:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 49,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26083000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam
Summary: A dark and smutty Tommy x Alfie love story. Slow burn. Hideous villain. Surprising amount of plot.
Relationships: Chester Campbell/Tommy Shelby, Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: Mistakes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1942681
Comments: 239
Kudos: 254





	1. Groundwork

**Author's Note:**

> This is dark, heavy smut. Please don't read unless you like that sort of thing!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campbell's long-since come to terms with the sinister form of attraction he feels for the head of the Shelby family. Hatred is a passion as fierce as any other and will not be constrained by the borders of propriety. He no longer fears his fantasies, he indulges them; embelishes them until they're almost tangible. Til he can hear Shelby's screams in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me, I needed to write something completely different after Live a Lie and this idea's been knocking around for a while. It's a dark and smutty Modern AU, so canon's out the window. (Except that Tommy is still a dubiously legitimate businessman with his fingers in a lot of pies, and Campbell is still a detestable police officer climbing the ladders of power). As for Alfie — well you'll have to wait until the next chapter to find out about him.
> 
> Warning: this first chapter is dark, heavy smut. Coercion, if not outright non-con (depending on how you read it). But I hope you'll stick around. This may get a little filthy. And emotional. I can guarantee a lot of feelings (not that Tommy would recognise them if they beat him with a rattan cane).

Chester Campbell cannot believe his luck when the phone call comes in at 3 a.m. on a Sunday morning.

"Joyriding?" he repeats.

"Yes, sir. Caught in a Maserati Levante near Westminster Bridge."

"And he's in the cells now?"

"Yes. With another lad. Kid named Isaiah."

"Thank you, Moss. Hold them for now. Don't charge them until I say so."

Campbell's interest in the Shelby family is longstanding and obsessive; he's tracked their every move with a fervour some might call fanatical. Thomas Shelby has wriggled from his grasp far too often, but each time Chester's resolve has hardened (much like his cock at 1 a.m. when he calls up the image of wet blue eyes and spends like a lust-sick teenager).

He's long-since come to terms with the sinister form of attraction he feels for the head of the Shelby family. Hatred is a passion as fierce as any other and will not be constrained by the borders of propriety. He no longer fears his fantasies, he indulges them; embelishes them until they're almost tangible. Til he can hear Shelby's screams in the dark.

Sleep is impossible with the weight of this unexpected opportunity lying in his lap. Power has always turned him on, both having it himself and seeing it artfully wielded. Shelby — with his blend of intellect and audacity — has amassed more than his birth should ever have allowed. It's a shame he bleeds such arrogance with it, which brings Chester to the greatest aphrodisiac of all: taking power away. Someone needs to put that fearless little gypsy back in his place.

He waits until 7 a.m. before dialling Shelby's number.

"Good morning, Mr Shelby. Sorry to bother you this early on a Sunday."

"Superintendent Campbell. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"It's _Chief_ Superintendent, actually—" _no thanks to you_ , "—and the pleasure is entirely mine."

A woman's sleep-groggy voice whines in the background, "come back to bed, Tommy."

"I do hope I'm not disturbing anything, Mr Shelby."

"Nothing that won't wait."

"Good. Good. Well, I'm afraid I have some rather bad news. Your little brother appears to have found himself in a spot of bother."

A lighter flicks, followed by a long, unhurried intake of breath that crackles through tobacco. "What's John done?" Shelby asks.

"No, no, believe it or not it isn't John this time. It's your youngest brother. Finn."

There's a turgid silence on the line. Chester can only imagine the cold fury in Shelby's eyes; he can't withhold a smile.

"I thought perhaps you and I should discuss how we might resolve this unfortunate matter. In person. Say, The Lord Hamilton? 9 p.m.?"

***

Chester treats himself to a haircut that morning and a shave at the local Turkish barber's. He rather likes what he sees when Berat has finished shaping his newly cultivated beard — it's almost white and lends him a certain air of gravitas.

"Quite the silver fox, sir!" Berat beams enthusiastically. Chester gives him a polite but curt nod and departs without leaving a tip.

He whiles away the rest of the day in smug solitude; reading the newspaper; sipping coffee at a pavement cafe; instructing Moss to check on the rumour that Shelby is founding a charitable foundation. He hadn't seen that coming, he'll admit, but it certainly fits the trajectory. Not only is Shelby now Director of the Greater Birmingham Chambers of Commerce, he is actively courting high profile members of both main political parties. As if his burgeoning empire makes him safe. Untouchable. Such reckless presumption cannot be left unchecked. 

When six o'clock rolls around, Chester takes himself home to shower and change. He dresses in a grey flannel shirt, dark chinos, and a navy blue wool coat, checking his pockets before he leaves. Good — he has everything.

He's mildly hungry, but he doesn't eat; there's a steak-house around the corner from the Hamilton at which he plans to treat himself to a T-bone and a glass of the '95 Bordeaux. It's a year since he transferred to London and Shelby last slipped from his grasp. And now, by serendipity, poor feckless Finn has put his brother's tail beneath Campbell's paw once more. It's a fitting end to their game of cat and mouse. Campbell fully intends to enjoy playing with his food.

***

The Lord Hamilton is one of The City's oldest pubs, a dark, Dickensian bar beneath which sits an even danker space. It's this subterranean hideaway that Campbell favours for meeting with informants and other low-lifes. The barman, Louis, nods in recognition and readies a glass of brandy as Chester descends the stairs.

It's quiet, being a Sunday. Four men perch on stools at the end of the ancient mahogany bar; they stink of dirty money and dirtier habits; Chester knows them all.

"You want them to leave?" Louis asks.

"No. They're fine," he confirms. _They might be useful_. "I'm expecting someone in fifteen minutes. See him through to the end room and ensure we aren't disturbed."

Louis nods once more.

It's two minutes to nine when the door to the small, windowless snug opens; the hinges protest violently as Shelby throws it wide.

"Good evening, Mr Shelby."

Shelby stops, still as stone, framed by the dark red doorway. Something hot slips down Chester's throat — like the burn of potcheen on an empty stomach — he's going to savour the next hour.

"No need to stand on ceremony; join me. Have a drink."

"I came here to talk," Shelby says, closing the door with his foot. He doesn't sit.

He's thrumming with a dangerous energy, and God knows far more powerful men than Chester Campbell have quaked beneath that glare, but his own response is more troubling (even in its familiarity). He's fascinated. Enthralled. Compelled to see that fury boil up so that he can slap it back down.

“Joyriding, Mr Campbell. Really? That's what you've got?"

"Joyriding is a serious business," he says.

"It's a first offence. No damage to people or property. Accomplice's father's a preacher. No judge'll send him down."

"Over-confidence has always been your downfall, Mr Shelby."

"They're the facts."

"Hmm. They are indeed. But it would seem that you're not in possession of all of them."

Shelby raises both eyebrows in question — an impatient gesture that Chester has always found rude.

"Unfortunately for Finn, 22 wraps of heroin were found in the door bin of the vehicle he was driving."

"That is a fucking LIE!" Shelby roars.

"That is intent to distribute."

There's the briefest of pauses before Shelby lunges at the one small table, hurling Chester's brandy to the floor. It explodes in a cloud of glass.

A thrill shoots through Chester's guts at such an open loss of control. He tuts and shakes his head in response. "You're really going to have to keep that temper in check, Mr Shelby, if this discussion is to continue."

"Finn has NEVER—" Shelby starts,

"—never what? Partaken in the family business? Oh I know. You've been very careful on that front, haven't you? He's never passed his driving test either, by the way. Scared to tell you he'd failed apparently."

"He's a kid! A fucking _kid_. He has nothing to do with this. With us." It's really quite endearing how Shelby even points his finger.

"I'm glad you acknowledge that there is an us, Thomas." Chester stands, rounding the table to brush glass from his lap.

"How much do you fucking want, Campbell?"

"Oh now, now, Mr Shelby. Surely you're not so naive as to believe I'd be satisfied with something as distasteful as money?"

"Everyone has a price, Campbell."

"You see, that's your problem, isn't it? You think you can buy your way out of anything."

"What then?" Shelby asks. "What do you want from me?"

"There's something that's been _troubling_ me," Campbell says. He keeps his voice light, chooses his words carefully.

Shelby does his best to look disinterested as he pulls a packet of cigarettes from his jacket's inside pocket.

"Do you ever get a question stuck in your head, Mr Shelby? A question that simply won't leave you alone? That you _need_ to have answered?

Shelby lights his cigarette; it's impressive how much anger he can inject into the flick of a lighter wheel.

"I have such a question on my mind," Campbell continues, "and it's been keeping me awake at night. All through the wee small hours. It's hard to function at one's best without a good night's sleep, don't you think?"

"Your sleeping habits are not my concern."

"Oh, but they _are_ , Thomas. You see the question that's troubling me relates directly to you." He jabs a finger at Shelby's chest. Now they're standing face to face.

Shelby sneers at the physical contact, but doesn't step back. "What question might that be?"

"I'm afraid it's rather ... delicate." Campbell leans in as if to tell a secret. _God, he smells good up close. Expensive._ "What sound does Thomas Shelby make when he's being fucked?"

He lets the question hang a moment, watches Shelby's skin pale. It's a barely-perceptible change in pallor that anyone else might miss. Not Chester. Chester has watched too closely for too long; he catches the reaction and uses it to strike, shoving Shelby hard against the wall and pressing a hand to his throat.

"Does he grunt like a pig when he's taken, hard? Or does he moan like a whore?"

Shelby glares as if his eyes alone had the power to harm. He lifts his hands to pull Campbell off, but seems to think better of it, settling for holding on rather than losing a struggle.

"Maybe you'll screech and wail," Chester says, "like the foxes that stalk this city's filthy alleys."

Shelby, feral creature, spits at him, and any impulse Chester had to be measured vanishes. He slaps Shelby hard across the cheek before wiping the muck from his own face.

"Vixens snarl like that, you know, to warn off their would-be suitors. You've probably heard them yourself, filling the night with their terrible screams."

Shelby looks a picture, lip twitching in silent fury as his cheek blooms livid red. But what is fury if not another form of passion?

"They always give in, the vixens. Surrender to the dominant male."

Shelby smirks a little at that. "That's what you think you are, eh? The dominant fucking male?"

"A quick assessment of the facts, Mr Shelby, would seem to make it so. Right now, I have your brother in a cell, my hand around your throat, and a significant height and weight advantage. Not to mention four men outside that door who will do my bidding and deny all knowledge afterwards."

Shelby's face is turning slowly crimson — whether from rage or lack of air — which lends his fierce glower a certain desperation. Chester's cock pulses. "So, how about we strike a deal? That's how you like to work, I believe?"

"What deal?" Shelby says. His voice sounds beautifully strained.

"I get an answer to my bothersome question and _you_ get your brother out."

Shelby takes an infuriatingly long time to respond. So long that Chester's hand starts to tire.

"And off all charges," he eventually says.

"And off all charges." Chester steps back, slowly. The room is small; the door is closed. Shelby won't run, not with his brother at such risk.

Shelby grinds out the cigarette he dropped earlier beneath one expensive shoe. "Best get on with it then," he says, unbuckling his belt with quick, angry movements.

Chester tuts. He's not so naive as to think Shelby has never been with a man, would crumble under his threats (even if, in his dreams, Shelby cries and begs, his face a mask of despair). But this defiant acceptance? It’s, frankly, disappointing.

"Bend over the table," he says, and Shelby moves like a cat — too slow and too proud for Campbell's liking. He stops when his thighs are pressed to the edge of the table.

"It's fucking filthy," he says, nodding at the ring-marked wood. "This is Italian wool." The vain bastard actually starts fumbling with his tie.

Campbell is losing his patience; he rips the leather from Shelby's belt loops and wraps it around his fist. "I don't care if it's Italian wool. Irish wool. Knitted from the hair of your mother's filthy cunt. Bend the fuck over and get your trousers down."

Making Shelby bare himself is the stuff of Chester's dreams; he likes the element of complicity almost as much as he likes the sight. So pale and human, bent over like this. Hard to believe this is the man so many have come to fear.

"Get the fuck on with it," Shelby grates, shifting his weight on his forearms. His movements are small but agitated, a delightful show of nerves.

"Stop fidgeting, Mr Shelby."

He waits for Shelby to still and, when he does, whips the belt across bare skin as hard as he can manage. The angry sound that Shelby stifles is music to his ears. Voices from the bar mimic a wince and a peel of laughter follows. Good. He wants them to hear. He lays half a dozen red stripes over Shelby's arse, and drops the belt to the floor.

"Have you forgotten where your cock is, Mr Campbell?" Shelby says, when his breath has settled.

"Impatient little whore, aren't you? You surely didn't imagine I'd touch you without precautions?"

He takes his time rolling on a condom, stroking himself with lubricant — he isn't the devil himself. He likes the loud squelch of his fist and the anticipation it creates. When he's ready, he approaches the table and spreads Shelby's cheeks with his thumbs. He could almost feel sorry for him, looking at that tight little hole, such an innocent shade of pink.

"Stay where you fucking well are, Mr Shelby," he growls. Shelby doesn't make it easy, clenching hard against the intrusion and roaring through gritted teeth as he's breached. Chester stops when his thighs are flush with Shelby's, forcing him hard against the table. He takes a moment to enjoy the spasming muscles, the way Shelby shudders and pants, fists clenched as if ready to fight. When he's sure he's in control of himself, he dares to move once more — pulling out slowly, until the crown of his cock tugs at Shelby's tight rim.

"I hope you're ready, whore," he whispers, grabbing a handful of black hair as he drives himself back in. The second roar of surrender is even more gratifying than the first. "It's about time someone taught you some humility," he snarls as he repeats the motion again.

Each slow, hard thrust slams Shelby into the table. Again. Again. Again. Shelby is defiantly quiet. "I can't fucking hear you," he says, leaning close to that scented neck.

"Fuck you," Shelby answers, his usual gravelly drawl now barely a rasping of breath.

"Have it your own way," Campbell says, letting go of Shelby's hair to hold onto the sides of the table. He fucks until he's out of breath, until Shelby is panting loud and hard, his head pressed into the wood.

"Thomas Shelby pants like a dog," he says. "Like a fucking mongrel bitch."

An angry growl escapes Shelby's lips, and _that's_ more fucking like it. He wraps himself over Shelby's back and pauses to catch his breath. "Beg me not to hurt you," he says. When there's no response he slams in so hard that the table rocks on two legs. " _'Please Mr Campbell, sir, don't hurt me_.' Something like that would do."

Shelby maintains his defiance. He doesn't obey, but he bites his knuckles, which turns Chester on more than it should. "Or maybe you like it when it hurts. Like being put in your place."

"No," Shelby grunts.

"Then beg me."

"Fuck off."

"Fine," Chester says, picking up his pace, "maybe your brother will beg instead."

Shelby gasps and tries to push himself up on his arms. "We made a fucking deal!" he shouts. It's really quite endearing, his trust in Campbell's word.

"The deal said your brother gets off. Not what happens to him first."

Shelby visibly slackens beneath him, like the fight is draining out of him. Chester slams in all the harder, over and over again. "You think you hate me, Shelby? You think you don't want this? And yet you won't say the words to make it stop."

"Please," Shelby says. His voice sounds thin. "Please leave Finn alone."

"Beg me," he repeats.

Shelby does. It's pathetic and lovely and sends Chester over the edge far quicker than he’d have liked. He comes with a long, hard groan.

***

"That won't be the last time," Chester says afterwards, warm with satisfied lust. He rests his head on the back of the leather banquette. "We're too useful to each other."

Shelby looks up from fastening his tie, his face an unanswered question. He doesn't deny it.

"You were hard," Chester adds. Because it's true. He really is a filthy whore. "Next time maybe I'll let you come. After I've made you cry."

"Ring him," Shelby answers. He looks surprisingly together with his suit back in place, though his cheek remains pleasingly pink.

"Who?" Chester asks.

"Moss, you fucking cu—"

"—ah, ah, ah," Chester wags his finger, "we've spoken about that temper."

"I've kept my side of the deal. Now you fucking well keep yours."

"I will, Mr Shelby. Thomas. You don’t mind if I call you Thomas? It seems more appropriate now that we've—"

Shelby grabs Chester's phone from the table and throws it into his lap. "You think you're the first man I've bent over for? You think it makes you special?"

"I think it makes me hungry, Thomas. Which reminds me, I have a reservation. Do you like steak?"

"Do I like fucking st—"

"l'll make that call in an hour. As soon as we've finished dinner."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okaaaay .... let me know what you think. Maybe. I'll just be hiding under this blanket.
> 
> Thanks muse for the beta (and giving me the courage to post this!)


	2. Consolidation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're not so very different, Thomas. We both understand the ugliness that's got us where we are. Go home. Wash off the blood. Think of me when you fuck your girl.

It turns out that fucking Thomas Shelby did nothing to quench Chester's thirst. The defiant little gypsy sat across the table afterwards — hard-eyed and shameless — as Chester ate his steak. And it wasn't the petulant refusal to eat that dampened Chester's appetite, so much as the smugness behind those half-lidded eyes. Despite everything that had just happened, Shelby seemed to think he had the upper hand. It made Chester want to kill him.

***

He waited several months before he made another move (by which time he'd rung every last drop from the memory of their previous encounter). He watched Shelby in the meantime with a brooding fascination, striding round in his Saville Row suits with that beautiful girl on his arm. As if he didn't come from filth. As if he wasn't stained. 

"GBH I'm afraid, Thomas. And with Arthur's form I don't need to tell you that he's facing a very long stretch."

Thomas had done what he'd had to, again, pressed his face against a dirty table and worn a mask of rigor. The distastefulness of the situation did nothing to curb Chester's lust.

"It doesn't cover the stench," he said afterwards, "that expensive cologne you wear. I can smell it in your sweat, Thomas. Poverty. Self-loathing."

Thomas lit a cigarette, with barely a shake to his hand. "And yet you fucking _want_ me."

The arrogance was astounding; it made Chester's nostrils flare. 

"Oh I want you alright, Thomas. I want to _hurt_ you. _Break_ you. I want to fucking _own_ you." 

"Or maybe you want to _be_ me, eh? Is that the truth Mr Campbell?"

"We're not so very different, Thomas. We both understand the ugliness that's got us where we are. Go home. Wash off the blood. Think of me when you fuck your girl."

***

It became quite touching, over the months, the things Shelby did for his family. God knows that pack of mongrels seemed to keep him on his toes. Campbell watched with detached admiration as Thomas fought to grow a legitimate business and disentangle his brothers from their disreputable past. There was clearly trouble brewing with the aunt — some sort of problem with investments her son had made using company money. Despite the outward signs of success, nice cars and houses and friends in high places, the strain was beginning to show. Thomas turned up increasingly drunk to their shady assignations; the lack of respect provoked Chester to increasing levels of force. He wanted Shelby's surrender — mind as well as body — but the self-destructive urchin refused to admit to his pain. The increasingly intimate marks Chester left behind must surely have lead to awkward questions. 

It was a rainy Tuesday evening when Shelby turned up, uninvited, to Chester's office at Scotland Yard.

"Someone's been spreading rumours about me. With some very dangerous men."

"I did hear something about that, Thomas. I have to say, I was very surprised to hear you're mixed up with the Albanians."

"Oh, you're fucking _surprised_ are you?" Shelby sounded livid. "And yet you're heading the Operation to run them out of this city."

Chester merely nodded because there was no need to deny it. "It seems that once again we may be in a position to help each other."

"If you think I'm touching the Hellbanianz, you're crazier than I thought. They traffic in their own kids to fill their brothels and run their cocaine."

"You're a man who does his homework. And you've every right to be concerned. My officers have been _sickened_ by the levels of violence those boys mete out to their own. For no apparent reason. Girls beaten half to death just to maintain the fear. Imagine what they'd do to the poor fool who dares to cross them."

Thomas Shelby's rage was such a pleasure to behold. It made Chester want to hold him, to have that wildness for himself.

"I haven't. Fucking. _Crossed_ them!" Thomas yelled. 

Chester ignored the outburst, rounding his desk to stare out of the window. "I believe that solving your Albanian problem may, in turn, solve mine. I have a use for you, Thomas."

"Beyond bending me over your desk?"

"Now, now. Let's not cheapen our interactions. I didn't ask you to come tonight. And yet ... here you are."

"To protect my fucking _family_."

"You tell yourself whatever you need to. But I will tell you this: love and hate are far from opposites, they're intimately linked."

_As are you and I._

The next time Thomas and Chester met, the plan had played out beautifully. Thomas had organised his end of the deal and an Albanian lynch-pin was dead. It would no doubt start a street-level war, but it boosted Campbell's Operation and the rest was someone else's problem.

Chester didn't fuck him that night, he didn't even ask. Instead he wanted Shelby's climax: a far more demeaning price.

"Thomas, don't look so horrified. You've earned the right to come."

Campbell stroked it out of him with uncharacteristic care, held Thomas's head against his chest and shushed him as he worked. It was much like training a vicious dog: the furious power beneath Shelby's skin, the thrill of holding the leash. Even the most aggressive beasts can respond to a gentle touch, but Thomas was so reluctant it was almost as if he was drugged. By the time he choked his climax into Chester's crumpled shirt it had taken nearly an hour. Chester wiped his hand off on a fistful of tissues and tutted at the graze to his wrist where Shelby's zip had chafed. Never in his life had he spent so long on someone else's pleasure. When Thomas couldn't meet his eye he didn't begrudge a single moment.

Thomas Shelby ran himself ragged after that night, even more so than before, and Chester was only a few steps behind keeping the pressure applied. His network of low-lifes made sure the Shelbys were fighting on several fronts. Thomas's behaviour became unpredictable, his decisions increasingly questionable. The family accused him of recklessness, of embroiling them in a gang-war they were ill-equipped to win. Things worsened when John Shelby took out a sex-trafficker in a fit of vigilanteism that nearly derailed Campbell's whole Operation. If the family's reaction was furious it was nothing compared to Chester's; he made Thomas pay dearly for John's mistake. The welts would last for weeks. 

"Good luck explaining those to Grace," he smirked as he sipped brandy afterwards.

Thomas buttoned his shirt with shaking fingers. "She's staying with her sister."

And oh how that had fuelled Chester's fire; encouraged him to push even harder. He had colleagues organise factory raids under Michael Shelby's nose. He fabricated concerns about Thomas's Charitable Foundation (the sister somehow managed to avert a full investigation by the Charity Commission). A well-timed tip-off to the Inland Revenue left the aunt furious and tied up in paperwork for months.

Just when it looked like things couldn't get much worse, Thomas was put in hospital. A vicious beating by unknown thugs caught him off guard one night. And rather than rally behind their leader the family turned on Thomas, blamed him for dragging them into trouble, for raising their profile too high. Even Chester was shocked at the vehemence of their wrath. 

It was as Thomas recovered from his injuries that the paranoia set in. He reacted to his family's anger by taking back all control. He worked without sleep and trusted no one — relying on drink and painkillers to make it through the weeks. Even the girlfriend, Grace, seemed to find him hard to be around. But the more Chester saw of Shelby's quiet desperation, the more he came to crave. 

Thomas had, mostly, recovered physically by the end of the summer. But then Grace died. Such a tragedy for her to go the same way as Thomas's mother. 

It was days after the funeral that Thomas turned up at Chester's door. He was drunk on guilt and fury; high on god-knows-what.

In the wrong man such obvious weakness might have inspired Chester's disgust, but in a man like Thomas Shelby? It fuelled a monstrous greed. 

"She was too delicate for you, Thomas. You need a firmer hand."

"She loved me," Thomas answered. His conviction was almost sweet.

"How could she love what she didn't know? I've seen inside your soul."

"Hurt me," Thomas whispered. And hurt him Chester had, with resolute devotion, stripping him and thrashing him until he vomited on the living room floor. Chester sat in the armchair afterwards and jerked himself off to the sight — pale skin stained angry red, atrocious in its beauty. 

He was gone by the time Chester woke the next morning, but was back within a few nights. He came when Chester fucked him, looking gloriously confused. Like he'd no idea how he'd got there, or how to get away.

****

They've come a long way in the last three years; their relationship is as mutually beneficial as Chester knew it would be. The Shelby empire has grown immeasurably and secured its first Royal Warrant and Chester himself received a commendation for his part in the war on drugs. They've become quite the modern power couple: dinners with the Mayor's office, requests to advise officials. Thomas's charity work with kids from deprived backgrounds has brought a slew of positive press (the reflected glory might even help Chester to make Met Police Commissioner).

Even the family's scepticism has shrunk away over time. None of the selfish fuckers wanted to pick up the pieces of Thomas's messy breakdown, the brothers were all delighted when someone else stepped in. As far as they were concerned, Chester was on Tommy's payroll — the useful copper who made charges vanish and investigations drop. The women were harder to convince, but a thwarted plot to kidnap Ada brought even Polly on side. 

Chester could have sat back and enjoyed the fruits of his carefully-executed labour. Everything has worked out better than he could have hoped. But there is just one piece of the puzzle _missing_ , which Chester can't abide. 

Despite Thomas's eagerness to be hurt, to be used, to fuel the dangerous, intoxicating chemistry that has grown between them, he has never fully surrendered. He looks at Chester with those cold blue eyes and taunts his boyfriend to make him feel it. And when Chester does, when he fucks Tommy raw, whips welts over welts, _still_ Thomas won't give up his tears. There's a safe inside Thomas Shelby to which Chester doesn't have the key. He wields only as much power as Tommy lets him have, and _that_ is never enough. 

He's found other ways to get to Thomas, to temper his natural inclination to arrogance: a small insult here, a snide remark there. Tiny moments, insignificant in themselves, that chip away at Thomas's ego and feed Chester's own. When he's dressed to kill (and by god, Tommy's looks could kill) Chester will point out his crooked tooth; question his choice of shoes. When Tommy's name was mooted for an honour he scoffed at the absurdity.

He's befriended the feckless brothers, learnt how to share in their jokes at Tommy's expense, listening carefully so that he can pick up the threads and weave them into his own destructive narrative. Nowadays he only has to imply that Thomas has been cruel or selfish or aloof for the rest of the family to comfort Chester with sympathetic eyes.

Thomas is a little quieter now. A little less proud of himself. He's finally coming to realise what Chester's known all along — that he hasn't achieved his success on his own. He's been lucky. Lucky to have Chester's guiding hand, his ability to keep prying eyes at bay. Without him, Thomas wouldn't be running the successful, legitimate business that he is today. And all Chester asks for in return is a simple display of submission. Tears. Honestly shed. It's not so very much to ask.

Which is how they've ended up here. In a murky, underground room.

Finding a Dom prepared to work with couples had been hard enough in itself. (Finding one with credentials and exceptional levels of discretion had been a whole different game). This guy agreed: Alfie Solomons (his real name, Chester checked). Subject to this meeting.

Chester has spoken to him extensively, of course, on the phone and via email. He's been careful to present this as a joint commitment because he's heard that Solomons is choosy. 

In person Solomons radiates control. He's dressed in slim black jeans and a grey shirt, untucked; his wrists are covered with leather bracelets, his fingers with gold rings. Chester would usually tut at such casually indifferent attire, but Solomons commands an undeniable authority. He's good-looking in a gruff, severe sort of way. He doesn't smile, doesn't frown; has the look of a man who is very rarely impressed. Chester's cock is already stirring at the thought of those penetrating eyes turned against his boyfriend, unmoved by Tommy's inevitable displays of contempt. Yes, this man could be just the partner he needs to finally pull Thomas apart.

He examines the contract that has been handed to him. Thomas has a matching one, they must both sign to seal this deal. He has skimmed most of the twenty or so pages, the rules about consent, the table of practices which they must tick and sign to highlight their hard-limits. He glances at Tommy to gauge his reaction, unsure whether he will still agree in the cold, fluorescent light of this dismal concrete building. But Thomas is not looking at the contract; Thomas is staring at Solomons' chest, where more leather jewellery nestles in golden hair exposed by three open buttons. Thomas, poor dumb boy that he is, is already licking his lips. Like he _wants_ to defer, like he _wants_ to please, like he's trying to fucking _flirt_. Chester makes a mental note to pick him up on it later. (As if any Dom would waste their time on a brat like Thomas if he wasn't being paid handsomely). Yes, Chester thinks. This could work out very well on many levels. 

Solomons is sitting behind a wooden desk in the middle of a room that looks like a small gym. The wall behind him is entirely mirrored — more like a dance studio than a dungeon. They've accessed the space via an, innocuous waiting area in the lower levels of a multi-storey car-park. It's not what Chester expected. There's little in the way of furniture: the desk, three chairs, a leather sofa and one large, battered armchair. In the corner stands a metal cabinet that looks like an old school-locker.

It would all look perfectly innocent, except for the large wooden cross in the corner and the meat-hooks that hang from the ceiling. 

"You've been together three years," Solomons starts. "You engage in BDSM practices as a couple. So what do you want from me that you can't give to each other?"

"I think we've already covered this," Chester says, with a small smile. 

"You and I have discussed it, yes. But now I want Thomas to answer."

Silence.

"I enjoy pain," Thomas says. It sounds like a fucking challenge.

"I should hope so. Otherwise you have most certainly come to the wrong place, sweetheart."

Campbell watches Tommy bristle at the term of endearment. 

"So what? Your boyfriend, here, he goes too easy on you?"

Thomas fucking smirks at that. "Oh, he hits me hard enough."

"Then what?"

There's a long pause and Chester has to bite his tongue not to jump in. If Tommy fucks this up with insolent answers he is going to bloody-well _kill_ him. But it doesn't look like Tommy wants to fuck this up. It looks like he is _invested_. "I find it hard to concede control," he eventually answers. His voice is very quiet. Low. "That disappoints my partner. Chester." He clears his throat. 

"And you'd like to surrender to him?"

"I'm not very ..." Tommy clears his throat again. "I'm not very good at submitting."

The corner of Solomons' mouth twitches and he writes something down on the pad he has resting on his knee.

"I think that if someone else ... hurt me ... I think that _that_ might help."

Chester can't help but interject. "Thomas finds it very hard to express emotion."

"And you want to punish him for that?" Solomons asks, keen eyes flicking straight back to Chester.

"I want to _help_ him with it."

"You want tears, Mr Campbell, isn't that right?"

He could swear he sees Tommy eye-roll out of the corner of his eye. 

"I want his barriers down. I want honesty. I want him to stop holding back." _I want him broken. Humiliated. Snivelling on his belly. I want to see in his eyes that he knows he's worthless, that I own him and he's lucky I fucking well do._

Solomons looks unconvinced. He taps the biro on his pad and looks between them, saying nothing. Chester fears this is all going to be lost and in a moment of inspiration reaches over to hold Thomas's hand. He hopes it doesn't look artificial. They aren't tactile outside of their sex life and Tommy immediately stiffens, eyes flicking right. Chester squeezes his fingers and hopes to god that the gesture comes off as affectionate rather than controlling. "What did you want to tell him, Thomas?" he says.

"I'm a brat, Mr Solomons," Thomas says, looking studiously at his hands. "I refuse to show humility. I need help to change my ways."

Solomons hums. It's a deep growl of a sound and Thomas's eyes flick straight up, his cheeks flush. Fucking _hell_ , he is turned on, the filthy little slut. Chester files that away for later.

"I think I can help you," Solomons says eventually. But there are some rules."

"Of _course_ ," Chester says graciously. "We'd expect nothing less."

"One. Whilst we are in this room he is _your_ boyfriend, but _my_ sub. Is that understood?"

Chester nods.

"Two. You can make requests and express opinions, but _I_ decide what happens to him. If I ask you to shut up then you goddamn shut up. Understood?"

Chester tries to mask his annoyance, but nods after a short pause.

"Three. There is always a safeword."

Campbell shifts in his seat.

"Always. And if he can't speak, then the safeword is replaced with a signal."

"Of course." Chester has always thought safe words were a little pedestrian. Not that it matters much; knowing Thomas, he would never use one in a million years.

"Four. I work at my own pace. I need to understand him. Bringing a sub to tears requires a depth of understanding that can't always be achieved in hours."

Chester's disappointment must be clear, because Solomons continues. "In the meantime I will give him what he needs. You won't be disappointed. Either of you. But tears .... tears take time."

He turns his attention back to Tommy. "There will be pain. There will be humiliation. Is that something you are willing to work through?"

"Thomas answers with a breathy, "yes," the word sounds short and embarrassed. Campbell can feel Tommy's hand trembling and wonders if it's nerves or arousal.

"If you're worried I'm a soft touch, Mr Campbell, then I can assure you, I have never been accused of going easy on a willing submissive."

Campbell feels a little called out, as if Solomons read his mind. 

"It is not about how hard I can hit or how stoic Mr Shelby can be. This is a journey. And, done correctly, the control will taste as sweet to you and me, Mr Campbell, as the surrender will feel to Thomas." Solomons leans forward in his chair, which creaks with the shift of weight. His voice seems to drop two octaves as he stares directly at Thomas, "and you will surrender, Thomas. I haven't failed yet."

Chester's cock lurches as he watches his boyfriend blush. He thinks he's going to enjoy this, the arrogant little shit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to muse for a stellar job of beta checking this monstrosity!!
> 
> Let me know what you think. Please. Or yell at me on tumblr (mintjamsblog).


	3. Bullet-proof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time it occurs to him to wonder why Thomas agreed. Perhaps to feed the darkness that undeniably lives inside him; the darkness that Chester wants to tear out and spread across the floor purely for the pleasure of standing over the mess and confirming what he's always known: that Thomas Shelby isn't special. He is blood and gristle and filth, the same as any other man. 

"You fucking fancy him," Chester mocks as they exit through the eerily quiet underground car park.

"So do you," Tommy answers. "And you know I would never have agreed to this for some fat, old fuck. So it's just as well." 

They drive home in silence.

***

The following week drags slowly. Thomas doesn't mention their impending appointment once, but Chester can tell he's on edge. Maybe it's entirely unrelated — Thomas keeps himself so busy and closed off it's impossible to tell — but by Thursday, the day before they're due for their first session, he's all pursed lips and tight sighs and irritable twitches.

Chester can hear him muttering curses as soon as he opens the door that night. 

"Good day?" he calls from the living room. 

Thomas answers by slamming the door and kicking his shoes across the hall. 

Chester is watching the ten o'clock news, vaguely engaged by a news report on the monarchy's year-end accounts. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Thomas reach for the whiskey decanter and throw himself into a chair. Within twenty seconds he's up again refilling his glass, then back in the chair rubbing at his eyes.

Chester tuts. "You're an antidote to relaxation." 

A tense silence ensues once the news report comes to an end. If there's one thing more annoying than Thomas's nervous energy it's his attempts to suppress said energy by staying unnaturally still. "Wanna fuck?" he says after two minutes, wrenching the tie from his neck.

"I suppose that passes for seduction where you come from," Chester mutters.

"Suit yourself," Thomas says and promptly leaves the room. 

They sleep in separate beds that night, which isn't at all unusual. Chester sees no point in ruining a good night's rest if there's nothing in it for him, and he learnt early on that Thomas Shelby is God's own repellant to sleep. When they _do_ have sex, Thomas might doze for a while afterwards, but they've agreed that it's best if he takes his nightmares up to the top floor after that. Thankfully their London townhouse has plenty of space to accommodate the arrangement.

"Be back on time tonight," Chester says, when they meet in the kitchen the next morning.

"I haven't forgotten," Thomas replies, without looking up from his phone. 

"Good."

Thomas leaves as soon as he's swigged back his coffee, flinging his jacket over his shoulder. There's a tell-tale rattle of pills from the pocket which he's usually more careful to hide. 

***

Chester is distracted all day. A delicious, sadistic excitement grows as the hours tick slowly by. It makes him unusually jovial, so much so that he spends far too long buttering up the Commissioner's assistant (it always pays to keep her onside; one day she may work for him). Before he knows it he's late. 

The car park is all-but deserted when they arrive on the stroke of eight. Thomas is quietly seething, hands so tense on the steering wheel his bones show through the skin. 

"Now, now, some nerves are understandable," Chester says, patting the hand on the gearstick as Thomas puts the car into park.

"I'm not fucking nervous. I'm pissed off. With you."

"Of course you are, pet."

Chester watches Tommy's jaw clench at the name he hates so much. But _pet_ is how Chester sees him. A beautiful, unruly creature that needs to be kept on a leash; given only enough affection to keep him in line. He has to earn it, obviously, has to be exercised and challenged and disciplined — like a dog — before he deserves to be petted.

He'll certainly be challenged tonight, if this Dom's reputation is anything to go by. A small shiver runs down Chester's spine as they make their way to the far back of the carpark and the innocuous-looking door. It isn't Alfie Solomons who opens, but a lanky, dark-haired man who looks them both up and down and raises his eyebrows as if mildly surprised. He leads them down a tiny corridor to the mirrored room where they met before.

"Thank you Olly," Solomons says. "Make yerself scarce until ten, there's a good lad."

Olly scuttles off, leaving the three of them standing on the threshold of their evening.

"Security," Solomons says, nodding at his receding accomplice. "Don't worry, he's the soul of discretion. You'll appreciate I can't be outnumbered." He stares at his watch for several long seconds before sniffing loudly and looking up with a deep frown.

"My apologies, Mr Solomons. Thomas here is something of a workaholic." Chester says. He's cross with himself for needing to offer an explanation, but he knows he won't be contradicted; Thomas makes a point of not defending himself — it's almost a matter of pride. 

The room is just as Chester remembers it; functional, sparsely furnished, with that intimidating wall of mirror. He feels awkward, looking at their reflections — because this time it's not a rehearsal. A heady mix of excitement and dread makes it hard to take a deep breath, although he's not sure what he is dreading exactly; it's not like _he_ is the subject. Christ knows how Thomas must feel.

For the first time it occurs to him to wonder why his boyfriend agreed. Perhaps to feed the darkness that undeniably lives inside him; the darkness that Chester wants to tear out and spread across the floor purely for the pleasure of standing over the mess and confirming what he's always known: that Thomas Shelby isn't special. He is blood and gristle and filth, the same as any other man. 

"Take a seat, Mr Campbell," Solomons says, without taking his eyes off Thomas. Chester prickles at the instruction but goes to sit on the old leather couch facing the mirrors. He feels like some paying voyeur. Solomons dims the lights dramatically and closes the door with a metallic clunk; the distant sounds of the city immediately noticeable by their absence. No hum of traffic or siren wail; no circling helicopters. In here there is only breathing and the sharp drag of boots on the floor.

Solomons paces heavily into the centre of the room, until he is standing too close to Thomas — almost toe to toe. He folds his arms across his chest and grips his own biceps. By _god_ he looks solid. Thomas stands his ground, tension rippling through his jaw as he stares back like the defiant little underdog in a mismatched fight. Chester has never been one to put money on the longshot. 

"Strip," Solomons says.

And Thomas does. Slowly. He removes each piece of clothing and folds it, carefully, down to the last cashmere sock. His composure is impressive. When he's done he looks up at Solomons, runs his tongue over his teeth behind pursed lips and fractionally raises his eyebrows. Chester's blood is fizzing with anticipation; it's better than arousal, better than power, but the precursor to both of those things. He looks at the neat stack of expensive clothes on the corner of the aged wooden desk and can't help but marvel at Tommy's boldness, the same calm contempt on display with which he would face a barrel.

A crack as loud as gunfire shocks Chester from his thoughts and he looks up to see a dark red handprint blaze across Thomas's cheek. He's stunned at the speed and ferocity with which Solomons just moved, although not as stunned as Tommy — whose eyes are wide and translucent before the hardness washes back in. 

"Next time you'll move a bit quicker, won't you?" Solomons says. He's standing so still it makes Chester nervous, arms folded thickly across his chest once more, as if he'd never moved at all. 

"Bend over that desk. Face the sofa," he says.

Thomas looks quietly furious but does as he's told without argument. Chester admires the curve of his arse reflected in the glass. He really is a quite a specimen, Thomas, a wonderful blend of contradictions: slim and strong, pale and dark, all puffed up pride yet deceptively slight. 

Solomons walks slowly around the desk, assessing the view before him. How many men (and women) has he seen like this? How does he choose what to do? 

"I'd like you to spank him, Mr Campbell." 

Chester is thrown off kilter, as it would seem is Thomas, judging by the way his head snaps up.

"Problem?" Solomons asks, prompting Chester to get up from his seat.

"No, no problem," Chester says. In truth he'd expected to sit back and watch this evening, not to play a role. He feels irrationally nervous being asked to perform in front of this man.

Solomons moves to stand in front of Thomas, taking both of his wrists in his hands and holding them onto the desk. "Whenever you're ready, warm him up."

Chester moves round the desk and wonders how hard he should hit. It's as if a senior officer has asked to witness an interrogation; he doesn't know which side of the line this officer's ethics lie.

"However you'd normally do it," Solomons says, "just with an open hand." He crouches down onto his haunches so that he's face to face with Thomas, still firmly holding his wrists. "Eyes on me, Thomas," he instructs, as Chester moves into position.

Chester rolls his sleeves up and tries to calm his nerves. _Just like an interrogation_ he tells himself. His smacks echo so loudly in the small, bare room it's alarming at first. He's conscious of the Dom's words last week about 'setting his own pace,' so starts out more gently than he might otherwise, alternating cheeks until he's built up a light pink colour. After three or four minutes Thomas huffs indignantly — it's dangerously close to a laugh. 

"You wish to say something Thomas?" Solomons asks.

"Yes."

"What then?"

"He never hits this gently."

"You like to goad," Solomons says. 

"I like to _feel_ it," he replies.

Solomons stares at Thomas with a look of deep concentration. He doesn't look up at Chester as he nods at him to continue. 

"You heard your boyfriend, Mr Campbell. Feel free to do your worst."

Chester does. He let's fly a flurry of swats that resonate loudly from the walls, hitting both cheeks until he's out of breath and has to pause to sweep the hair from his face. Solomons peers over Thomas's shoulder to assess the damage in the mirror. His arse is pleasingly red and he's breathing much harder now. Chester feels mildly placated. He starts in again, determined to prove his ability as much as to punish Tommy's impetuousness. Thomas starts to struggle, grunting as each strike lands and turning his face into the desk. 

"Eyes up here," Solomons says. He drags Tommy's face back up and Chester wants desperately to know how he looks. Defiant most probably — but feeling it. Solomons shifts on his haunches then goes to fetch a wooden chair and sits it in front of the desk. Close. He grips Thomas's wrists again and nods to Chester to continue. Chester is starting to enjoy himself, even if he is doing all the work. He knows that Thomas will find being watched like this excruciating.

"I need to see how he reacts," Solomons says, as if in reply to a question. "Carry on, please."

The next flurry are harder yet, so hard Chester's arm aches. Tommy's arse jolts beautifully, his whole body pushed forward by each swat.

After another few minutes Solomons shouts, "stop!"

Tommy is panting hard, forehead pressed down again, and despite such pleasing reactions Chester is glad of the respite.

Solomons releases one wrist to tip Tommy's face back up. 

"Hmm. Feeling it now are you, Thomas?" 

"What do you fucking well think?" Thomas snarls, in a surprisingly acidic tone. 

Solomons doesn't seem to react. If anything he relaxes into his chair; widens his legs a little. He doesn't let go of the hands.

"I once strung a guy upside down from this ceiling for swearing at me," he says. He looks over at the hooks that dangle behind them like ominous props to his tale. "I scrubbed his arse with a bath brush first, til his skin was fuckin' raw. People pay a lot of money for that sort of thing in a Russian sauna. You ever been to a banya?"

"No," Chester says quietly. Thomas doesn't answer.

"Then I gave him a nice massage. With some capsicum oil. Silly boy swore a lot more after that, so I caned him forty-seven times. Once for every curse. He could hardly fuckin' breathe by the end, let alone utter profanities." Solomons sniffs again and nods subtly, eyes drifting off to the left as if briefly lost in that thought. 

Chester's blood runs icy cold and he's rock hard in his trousers.

"You counted," Thomas says quietly. It's an observation, Chester knows, but Solomons answers as if it were a question.

"Of course I fuckin' counted. I'm _always_ taking notes. S'what makes me good at what I do."

Thomas's breathing has gone very shallow and his skin boasts a fine sheen of sweat. 

"Take a seat, Mr Campbell," Solomons says, seemingly back from his trip down memory lane. "Have a rest."

Chester is relieved to sit back on the sofa. He can see the back of Solomons' body from here, the top of Tommy's head. He takes some pride in how red hot his boyfriend's skin looks in the mirror, although after what he's just heard it seems a little inadequate. Solomons leans forward and rubs his palms over the backs of Tommy's hands, still resting on the desk. He runs his fingers through Tommy's hair in a gentle motion, the sort of thing Chester himself might do just to be patronising.

"No need to look so worried, Treacle. M'sure you won't be so reckless."

Chester snorts to himself.

"Stand up," Solomons instructs.

Thomas pushes himself off the desk on legs that look slightly less sure than before. He throws Chester a defiant glare that complements the bright red handprint and newly-tousled hair. It suits him well to look ruffled.

"Stretch out. Relax," Solomons says in a chirpy voice, as if he were some benign gym instructor offering his student a break. Chester can't make this man out — the way he flips from silent brooding to warm joviality, by way of a threatening anecdote, is unsettling at best and alarming at worst — he's entirely unpredictable. Although perhaps that is the point.

The next few minutes are spent watching Solomons manhandle Thomas. He guides him round to the other side of the desk, so that his arse is now facing Chester and his head is towards the mirror. He stands back and looks dissatisfied and makes Thomas stand again. He fetches a chair and turns its back to the edge of the desk, making Thomas kneel on it, before he bends him down once more. Finally, he produces a roll of duct tape and uses it to secure Thomas's knees to the outer edges of the chair. Chester's cock aches at the sight of his boyfriend restrained, his cock and balls just visible between his spread thighs. 

Solomons ghosts his hands over Tommy's red cheeks. "Very good," he says. "Let's see how you do with the paddle."

He stalks over to the tall cabinet and selects a paddle that looks like it's made of acrylic, about a foot long and eight inches wide. He shows it to Chester. "You ever used one of these?"

Chester coughs at the sight of the implement. "No, no I haven't," he says.

"Your traditional paddle is made of wood, of course. But this is a bulletproof material. Very strong, completely see-through and stings like an absolute bitch." He dangles it in front of Chester, who hopes he won't be asked to wield it, because his cock is rigid between his thighs at the thought of Thomas's pain.

"Then enjoy." He says. "I'd like you to hold your boyfriend's hands please." 

"I don't need to be held down," Tommy growls, sounding absolutely livid.

Solomons doesn't answer. He walks slowly over until he is standing behind Thomas, looking at him in the mirror. He lifts the paddle and swings it through the air with what appears to be considerable force. The crack it makes is phenomenal — Thomas yelps exquisitely and springs up from the desk. He looks in equal parts shocked and furious, which rouses something so dark in Chester he almost moans out loud.

"That's really not your decision, Thomas," Solomons says, ushering Chester to lean his weight on Thomas's wrists. "We'll start with twenty," he says. "And I want you to look at your boyfriend and thank him for every stroke." He's barely finished speaking before he lands the next strike, slightly less hard than before, but just as indecently loud. "One," Solomons says. 

Thomas — stupid, defiant boy — stays silent. With some difficulty if the contortions of his face are any guide.

"I can't hear you," Solomons says.

"Thank you," Thomas spits with a vicious glare. He couldn't look like he meant it any less if he tried; Chester grins at him. "You're very welcome, Thomas."

There follows a lengthy pause, during which Chester enjoys the dread anticipation on his boyfriend's face. The next strike shocks them both, knocking a fast, loud breath from Thomas and painting Chester's face with a sadistic smile.

"Thank you," Thomas whispers.

"You're welcome," Chester repeats.

Eighteen hard strokes later and the _thank yous_ are heaved out between shuddering breaths, without a second's hesitation.

Even Chester is confusingly relieved when it stops. Solomons runs a hand over Thomas's back and mutters a soothing "shhhh."

"May I see?" Chester asks.

Solomons stands aside and gestures _be my guest,_ as he returns the paddle to the cabinet in the corner. Chester walks round and swallows at the sight of Thomas's cheeks — as red as the darkest cherries. He can't help but run his fingertips over the swollen bruised skin. He makes a disappointed tutting sound as Thomas wraps his head in his hands.

"Very effective tool, that," Solomons says, watching Chester's reaction. "Let's see how he copes with something a little more intense."

Solomons is wielding another paddle — it looks much like the first but has a series of large holes drilled into it. "They reduce the air resistance, allows for a faster swing," he explains. "And leaves some very pretty bruises." 

Chester longs to touch himself but isn't sure what's deemed appropriate. Thomas is still lying slack across the desk when Solomons ghosts his hand over the angry looking skin.

"Thirty with this one, Thomas. And I won't even make you count. Why don't you stay on this side, Mr Campbell, and enjoy the way it marks?"

Chester is entranced by the way the flesh flattens beneath each blow; a series of furious purple crescents blooms across Thomas's arse. It's like watching a devilish artist at work, luring Thomas's blood to the surface to stain his pretty skin. 

By the time they're halfway through the set, Thomas's head is wrapped in a vice created by his own arms. Solomons pauses to smooth his hand over the welts. He leans down close to Thomas's ear but doesn't attempt to move him. "You're doing very well," he says in a voice that's incongruously soft and utterly incompatible with the ferocity of the next ten blows, delivered in rapid-fire succession. Thomas dissolves in a desperate cacophony of groans and gasps, banging is elbows on the table and twisting his hips in a pointless attempt to escape. He sounds so fucking _angry_ , like the animal he is.

"That's it, Thomas. Nearly done. Why don't you deliver the last five, Mr Campbell?"

Chester is about to defer in favour of witnessing the finale. But then Thomas shakes his head so pathetically he can't bring himself to refuse.

"I'd love to," he says.

Solomons hands the paddle over and rounds the desk. He takes a chair and sits himself right in front of Thomas's buried face. "Give me your hands," he says, reaching across to untangle the fingers Thomas has laced into his hair. Thomas shakes his head again, a smaller movement this time.

"Give me your hands, Thomas," he says in a sterner voice. 

Thomas still doesn't move.

"In this room you are _mine_ and you will listen to what I say. Give. Me. Your. Hands."

Chester wonders what will happen if Thomas doesn't comply; the familiar part of himself _dearly_ wants to find out. But Thomas seems to be beyond the reaches of even his own defiance. His fingers slowly uncurl, and as they do, Solomons takes them in his.

Chester throws every ounce of strength he has behind those last five blows. He's broken enough men in his day to know when not to relent. When he's finished Thomas is silent again, as if every last sound has been knocked out of him and all he can do is gasp.

"Shhhhh," Solomons says, bringing Tommy's hand to his lips and sucking one finger into his mouth. Thomas lets out a pathetic, startled sound and tries to pull away, but Solomons holds him by the wrist and sucks another finger in, humming deeply.

Chester's lip curls.

"Thank you," Thomas says much later, when he's stopped shivering and he's dressed again. He hasn't shed a single tear but his eyes are gleamingly translucent. It's a promising start.

"I think I know what I'm working with," Solomons says. "And the more I get to know you, the better it'll get."

Thomas nods again, looking unusually submissive.

"You'd better be driving, Mr Campbell. Make sure Thomas takes it easy. Gets some rest."

Chester wraps an arm around Thomas and smiles indulgently as they head to the door.

They're back out in the corridor when Solomons says, "Oh, just one thing Thomas, what do you call these?" He holds up a bottle of pills and rattles it in his hand.

Chester recognises the Tramadol Thomas still takes far too often.

"Painkillers," Thomas answers.

"Painkillers, right. For what?"

"I don't see how that's any of your—" 

"—just some old sporting injuries, eh, Thomas?" Chester jumps in. "And you know you don't really need them, love."

"Good. That's good," Solomons says. "Because I distinctly remember you signing a contract saying there were no injuries or illnesses I needed to know about." He looks furious as he glances from Thomas to Chester and back. "Is that still correct or is there something you need to tell me?"

"No injuries," Thomas says.

There follows a lengthy silence. 

"Pain is a part of what we do here, gentlemen. Pleasure too, I hope, the more we get to know each other. And if you are medicating yourself, Thomas, I cannot read your reactions or see how your body responds."

"I'm not," Thomas stammers. "I won't—" and it's delightfully out of character. This deference. Defensiveness. It makes Chester wonder exactly how much he is hiding.

"That's right, you won't," Solomons goes on. "Because if I find out you've been taking this shit again I will make _very_ sure you regret it." He lumbers right up to Thomas and stands far too close (again). "I will take one of them rattan canes in there and whip your arse so hard it'll make tonight seem like a joke. Okay?"

Thomas nods, and Solomons squints, as if trying to read the truth. He points his finger at Tommy's chest.

"I will spread your legs, and whip your hole til it's swollen so tight you can't fit a matchstick in it. And then I will watch your boyfriend fuck it back open." He nods, slightly manically, and raises both eyebrows. "Understood?"

"I'll see to it personally," Chester says with his most reassuring smile.

He's fucking mad, this Dominant, of that Chester is sure. But he's had an effect on Thomas, which is surely worth a risk. He takes the keys from his boyfriend and gets in the driver's seat. Thomas keeps his eyes closed for the entire journey home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, next chapter we're having a change of POV!


	4. Fortieth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why the fuck Chester thought it would be a good idea to kettle the entire Shelby family in the private dining room of an expensive Japanese restaurant is beyond him. Well, not beyond him exactly. This is Chester's idea of fun — playing the dutiful boyfriend whilst watching Tommy squirm in his seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've said it before and I'll say it again, dark themes, unhealthy relationship, please don't read if you don't like that sort of thing!
> 
> Thanks to muse for the beta!

Thomas sits in the toilet cubicle and toys with the small plastic bag. He doesn't normally do coke but fuck knows he's going to need _something_ to get through the next few hours, and he's sworn to stay off the pills. Why the fuck Chester thought it would be a good idea to kettle the entire Shelby family in the private dining room of an expensive Japanese restaurant is beyond him. Well, not _beyond_ him exactly. This is Chester's idea of fun — playing the dutiful boyfriend whilst watching Tommy squirm.

Because less than 24 hours ago Tommy was blindfolded, cuffed to a wooden cross and left to fuck himself on a ten-inch dildo whilst Chester and Solomons played chess. Ninety minutes they left him there. Until every muscle in his body was screaming with the effort of trying to hold himself up, hold himself off. Until he couldn't any more. Until he hung slack and overwhelmed and whimpering and ... _fuck_... he doubles over to stifle the way his stomach clenches when he thinks of it.

His body is sore and exhausted in a way he's never felt before — as if he's run a marathon in a lead-weighted suit — stomach, limbs, shoulders, neck, every part of him aches. Not to mention his arse. And all of that would be manageable, probably, if it wasn't for the mortifying snippets of recollection that seep under the doors of his mind like a sinister black puddle. He didn't cry (he knows for a fact) but beyond that he can't be sure — with the gag and the earplugs and blindfold it was all a frightful blur. He remembers the hands on his face, the soothing words in his ear as Solomons took away most of his senses. _Trust me Thomas. This'll help you let go. Does a falling tree still make a sound if you're not there to hear it?_ After that he couldn't hear a thing.

They could though. Chester and Solomons heard everything. And whatever muffled sounds he made he knows they were far from pretty.

 _Pitiful,_ Chester told him later that night _... wretched ... pathetic._

Tommy hadn't wanted to fuck, but Chester had insisted. "So you get to moan yourself hoarse, and I'm just expected to wait? You came like a whore in his hand, Thomas. You're a selfish little shit."

" _You_ wanted to fucking visit him!" Tommy shouted, for which Chester held him down by his hair til he felt like he was being scalped. 

"Didn't expect you to enjoy it so much. You filthy pain-slut." 

He didn't enjoy it. He hated it. Hated the warmth of Solomons' hands, so gentle they'd made him flinch. Hated how slowly they'd milked him, slick caresses in devastating contrast to the overwhelming fullness. Hated how they'd made him tremble, kept him teetering on the brink til his whole body shook and he writhed and tensed and couldn't escape and came as if in slow-motion. And _still_ the hands didn't stop. Until he was trembling uncontrollably and Solomons reached over and uncurled his fingers for him, making him drop the little ball he'd been clasping in lieu of a safeword.

He curls over further and pulls on his hair until the wave of shame breaks over him and the pain brings him back to himself.

"Don't you think he seems a bit off though?" Ada's hushed voice outside the cubicle drags him from his introspection. 

"How would we tell? It's Thomas. Something's always off." 

"You know what I mean, Polly. It's his own fuckin' birthday party and he just looks ... I don't know."

"Maybe age is catching up with him," Polly laughs. "Or they've had a lover's tiff."

Ada scoffs. "Well, Chester should really know by now that Tommy hates surprises."

"It's his 40th, Ada. The poor man could hardly do nothing. And it's not like Thomas makes it easy to know _what_ he wants these days."

What Tommy wants is for them both to _fuck off_ so he can snort this coke in private. The gents and the ladies share a large hand-washing area, through which he'll have to walk to get out. He's trapped in here until they leave. 

"Where is he, anyway?" Ada asks.

"Went outside for a smoke. Which is exactly what I'm going to do."

He hears Polly's heels clack across the tiles and releases the breath he's been holding. He'd kill for a handful of painkillers, but he took three last night to help him sleep, and he's promised himself no more. This'll have to do. He empties the powder onto the shelf behind the toilet cistern. At least a better class of restaurant buys you a better class of cubicle: this one is all smoked glass mirrors and mahogany walls and expensive looking toiletries. He avoids looking at his reflection as he fishes a credit card from his pocket and cuts himself three lines; he's busy rolling a fifty-pound-note when a mobile rings and he realises Ada's still outside.

"Laura?" she says, and Tommy freezes. 

"Laura ... hold on ... calm down. You're drunk, love. Yes, I'm with him, why? I don't know ... we're out ... maybe his phone's on silent?" Ada sighs deeply and there's a long pause. "Look, I'm so sorry Laura, I really am, but this isn't a good time. Why don't you call back tomorrow?"

"Where the _fuck_ is Tommy?" John's voice booms across the stalls as if they were in a crowded pub not an exclusive restaurant in Mayfair. Ada hisses at him to be quiet.

"I'm on the phone," she says. "He went outside for a smoke."

"Well he's not out the front and he's not at the bar and Chester wants to make a birthday speech."

"Yes, it's his birthday, Laura," Ada says. She's starting to sound exasperated. "I'm sorry too ... so sorry ... but you need to stop this. It wasn't his fault. How about coffee tomorrow? I'll message you. Whatever it is, you can tell me then ... Laura ... Laura are you listening? I'm hanging up now." 

"Laura as in, Grace's sister, Laura?" John sounds incredulous. Or maybe angry, it's hard to tell the difference. "What the _fuck_ is she ringing you for?"

"I don't know. She say she's been trying to get hold of Tom."

"Why? She fucking hates him?"

"No idea. She wasn't making much sense."

"You need to help me find 'im, Ade. Esme'll have my balls if we're not out of 'ere by midnight."

"She's already had them under the table. You two are a disgrace."

"That's nothing. You should hear what she's got planned for later..."

There's a soft whacking sound followed by, "shut the _fuck_ up, John!" and then the pair of them finally head out. 

Tommy snorts all three lines.

***

When he walks back into the private dining room the world seems alarmingly bright; it's preferable to the exhaustion but slightly terrifying. Johnny Dogs looks towards the door and cheers so raucously they must be able to hear it in Marble Arch. Tommy winces.

"Twenty-seven minutes boys," he says, holding his phone in the air to display a stopwatch screen to the room. "That makes Finn the winner!"

There's much yelling and groaning and a pile of coins and notes being thrown into the centre of the table. "Fucking 'ell, Tom. Where've you been?" Arthur says, "I 'ad you down for ten minutes."

Tommy's heart and mind are racing; the roaring and backslapping really isn't helping him control the high kicking in. _Jesus_ it looks like chaos in here. The table is littered with the remnants of sushi and dozens of empty bottles. A pair of demure young waitresses is battling to clear up the mess; they'll never survive all these leering eyes and flailing arms if they're going to be that polite.

"Get this man some more saké!" Arthur shouts, foisting a glass at Tommy. "Throw that down you, brother," he says, filling it to the brim.

Tommy necks it gratefully and raises his glass to the room. "Sorry everyone. Phone-call."

"Who was it — the fuckin' Prime Minister?" John shouts. "It's your 40th birthday, Tom!"

"Yeah, come on old man," Finn's clearly high and full of himself, draped in some leggy girl who's wearing less than your average lingerie model. "Don't you ever stop working?" 

"Someone's gotta pay for that watch, Finn," Tommy says, gesturing at the weighty gold timepiece draped around Finn's left wrist.

Chester's eyes drill into Tommy from the far end of the long table. He squints and jerks his neck in an irritable summoning motion. "Could we get some champagne for everyone please? I'd like to make a toast."

The terrified-looking sommelier tries to extricate himself from the corner of the room where he's trapped behind Polly's raised knee. She peels herself slowly out of the way and blows him a threatening kiss. Tommy mentally triples the size of the tip he'll need to leave. 

"Where the fuck have you been?" Chester whispers, taking Tommy's phone from his own back pocket and placing it on the table as Tommy takes his seat. Twenty-two missed calls blink back at them from the screen. Twenty are from Laura.

"Powdering my nose," Tommy answers. He has a split second to wonder why the fuck he is baiting Chester before the door to the room bursts open and in walks a small forest fire. Chester paints a smile on his face and gets to his feet, leading the room in a rowdy rendition of "Happy Birthday" as the cake is placed in the centre of the table. Tommy feels violently sick.

Everyone sits back down as they wait for forty sparklers to burn themselves out.

"Speech, Tom! Speech!" Arthur yells, as the last sparks of orange disperse. He's banging his hands on the table, but stops when Linda leans in to whisper in her husband's ear. 

"Yes, thank you, Arthur," Chester says, getting to his feet. "Thank you. Actually _I_ would like to say a few words." 

There's more whooping and forks are bashed against glasses before a round of drunken shushing ensues. Chester clears his throat loudly and puts on his most serious voice.

"As you all know,' he starts, "we are gathered here this evening to celebrate a very auspicious occasion."

The room falls into a fidgeting silence; Tommy's ears over-compensate by providing a loud background roar.

"Young Thomas here is not _quite_ so young anymore, and I'm sure you'll all agree that forty years on this earth is worthy of celebration!"

"Here, here," Johnny toasts.

"He's still young to _me,_ of course, old dinosaur that I am."

"You're as young as the man you feel, Chester!" Esme shouts with a grin. 

Chester chuckles indulgently and waits for the tittering to recede. "I wanted to thank you all for making it here this evening, _and_ for managing to keep it a secret from Thomas. I must say, I'm impressed. I know that keeping quiet is not a skill that comes naturally to you Shelbys." Laughter erupts again but it's more polite this time _._ "As you all know, Thomas doesn't like a fuss, so it's taken some considerable effort to get him here tonight. He's a difficult little thing when he wants to be—"

"You can say that again," John mutters.

"—but I have my ways."

Polly rolls her eyes. "We don't want to know thank you, Chester." 

"Now. To be serious for a moment." Chester clears his throat once more, with intent. "I may only have been with Thomas for the last three of his forty years ... but they have ... without doubt ... been three of the most enjoyable years of my life." 

_Where the fuck is this going?_ Tommy shifts uneasily in his seat.

"It hasn't always been _easy,_ of course. Things rarely are where Thomas is concerned." More quiet murmurs of agreement chase Chester's words around the room. "When we first met, Thomas had experienced a great loss."

Tommy's stomach drops through his seat. _Surely he's not going to mention Grace? Even Chester wouldn't fucking mention..._

Tommy clears his throat loudly and makes to stand, but Chester puts a hand on his shoulder and grips hard enough to bruise. "No, no, Thomas," he says turning to look at him. "It's my turn to speak and, for once, _you_ are going to listen." 

Someone mocks, "uh oh, you're brave, Chester!" Tommy stares rigidly at the table and feels sweat run down his back.

"Such a loss would crush some people. Make them lose their spark, their ambition ... but not our Thomas."

And just like that, Tommy can see exactly where this is going.

"Thomas has taken a tragedy and turned it into his own personal triumph."

He looks at the smiles all fixed on Chester and hates every damn one of them — fools lapping up these twisted barbs, swallowing them as praise. 

"It takes a very special man to move forward with such focus. To rack up the awards and accolades and grow himself an empire."

Every supposed compliment splits Tommy a little inside. He knows Chester's doing it deliberately, but the facts themselves condemn Tommy: he _did_ cut his girlfriend down from the ceiling and carry on with his life. 

"And a charity!" Curly offers.

"And a charity. Of course. Thank you, Curly. Helping all those poor _unfortunate_ youngsters, giving them ambitions of their own." Chester sounds so insincere to Tommy but no one else seems to notice.

"And horses too, Mr Campbell. Them youngsters love the horses!"

"They do, Curly," Tommy smiles.

"Good for the soul, them creatures," Curly adds.

"And good for PR too, eh Thomas?" Chester smiles and ruffles Tommy's hair. "As I think most of you already know, The Small Heath Foundation has recently been affiliated with the Prince's Trust. Always an eye on business."

"Nothing for nothing, eh, Tommy?" Arthur guffaws.

Tommy wants to punch him. Instead he leans forward and points his finger and says what he fucking well wants to say. "That charity is there to help troubled kids who live otherwise miserable lives. You of all people should remember what that was like, brother." He sits back and swallows his glass of champagne in one mouthful. When the sommelier appears to refill it Tommy rips the bottle from his hands and makes short work of the rest. 

The atmosphere in the room has changed from jovial to awkward and Arthur looks like a child who's been admonished by the teacher. Tommy couldn't care less about everyone else's discomfort; they all think he's a callous cunt anyway. The charity is the one _good_ thing he's done and he won't have Chester poison it.

Chester turns to Tommy with a skewering look. "And it's that very _passion_ that I fell in love with. Isn't it, pet?" There are a few patronising clucks from the women in the room and Chester looks back up and beams. "How he manages to juggle everything I really don't know. So driven. To Thomas," he says, raising his glass to the room. "May he never drop a ball."

"To Thomas!" everyone toasts; Chester leans down and presses a kiss to his boyfriend's temple and it takes every shred of Tommy's willpower not to shrink away.

***

"Would you stop that sniffing, for _God's_ sake, Thomas?" The atmosphere is dismal for the entire cab ride home.

Tommy presses his restlessness against the door and swallows his simmering rage. By the time they're through the front door the coke's worn off and the words come out of their own accord. "What the _fuck_ did you do that for? Just ... just ... _why_?"

Chester takes a deep breath and hangs his coat on the wall. For a moment Tommy thinks he isn't going to respond — that he's got away with it — but Chester turns round slowly and dips his head towards Tommy. "Well that is some thanks _indeed_. I arrange a party for you, and your entire _rabble_ of a family, and this is the response I get?" 

"Let's not pretend you did this to be _nice_."

"Careful Thomas. You sound a little paranoid there."

"You _know_ what happened yesterday. A quiet fucking weekend you told Solomons."

"Oh dear," Chester tuts, "did lover-boy tell you to take it easy? Was a quiet dinner too much?"

"You call tonight _quiet_? Half the other diners walked out ..."

"Well it's hardly my fault if your family is a passel of ill-bred swine."

"Don't," Tommy starts, but his head is swimming several steps ahead of him and it's as much as he can manage to stumble after it down the hall. "That speech," he says as he reaches the stairs. "What the _fuck_ was that speech about? Why would you even ..." he trails off. The question is naive, he knows that, but he doesn't have the energy to hold this in. "Why would you mention Grace? Eh? Why the _fuck_ would you bring that up? What is _wrong_ with you? _"_

"What's wrong with _me?_ " Chester laughs. "What's wrong with _you_ more like. You're being highly sensitive. Do you need twenty-four hours to get over a good fuck now? Is that it? Age must be catching up with you."

"A good fuck?" Tommy says, wheeling round. "You call last night a good fuck?"

"Such a delicate flower." Chester reaches out to stroke Tommy's cheek and Tommy bats him away.

He fetches the bottle from his office as he makes his way to his bedroom. Climbing the stairs reminds him of just how much everything hurts. He kicks off his shoes and unbuckles his belt and rolls himself onto the bed. Perhaps if he doesn't move until morning he'll forget how bruised he is. The evening replays in his mind as he lies staring at the ceiling. Chester's words. The looks on his family's faces. The missed phone calls from _Laura_ of all people. Laura who hates his guts. He ought to check his messages, but he doesn't know where his phone is; he swigs the gin instead. 

He's still clutching the bottle, Christ knows how much later, when Chester appears.

"Look, Thomas," he says, all feigned contrition as he sits on the edge of the bed. "Let's not end the night like this."

Tommy lies still as a corpse, save for his eyelids which roll slowly upwards. 

"It's your birthday," Chester says, placing a hand on Tommy's arm. 

Tommy cranes his neck slowly towards the radio on the bedside table. "Was," he says. 

"Was," Chester agrees. "Tomorrow we'll go for lunch. I'll book us a table at the Savoy Grill."

"I have to work," Tommy answers and waits for Chester to harden. He already knows how this will play out, knows what he's doing, even if he can't explain exactly why.

"I'm trying to be patient, Thomas. But I find it very hard to understand your ingratitude."

"Ingratitude?" Tommy raises his eyebrows and licks his lip in amusement. Because he _is_ amused. Despite everything. That Chester takes him for a fool. That he's going to let it happen anyway.

"You have some front, to lie there and look at _me_ like that. After everything I've done." Chester gets to his feet and starts to roll up his sleeves. "You were little more than a street-rat Thomas."

"Vermin," Tommy agrees.

"Do you need to be reminded?" Chester's words are clipped and furious. He wants a spark of fear. Tommy'll fucking die before he grants it.

"Does it matter what I think?" he says.

He fights as Chester rolls him, because that's how this always goes, but once his trousers are around his knees and the first strike lands across his thighs, the relief rolls in alongside the pain and he wills himself to go limp.

He knows he's sick to seek refuge in such cruelty, but he grits his teeth and waits for the numbness; he prays it doesn't take long. There's always a moment of delirium first, when the blows rain down like licks of fire and he hates with a force of passion that almost reminds him of love. Chester whips him until there's not a sane thought left in his head; until he's the kid that sniggers at terrible news when anyone else would cry. Hysterical. Inappropriate.

Solomons wouldn't hit him last night because the previous marks hadn't healed. At this rate Chester is guaranteeing that Dom will never hit him again. How ironic. The thought makes Tommy laugh. Which is a mistake. Because Chester rolls him onto his back and fucks into him so hard it feels like being kicked. Repeatedly. He feels sick with it, sick with himself, disgusted at the desire that somehow seeps up through the terror.

"Look at me," Chester snarls.

But he can't and he won't and he closes his eyes and pictures a pair of grey-green eyes that held his gaze through the pain. He comes in silent convulsions.

He doesn't move when Chester leaves. Not to clean himself or cover himself, only to reach into the bedside drawer and take out the bottle of pills. He pictures Grace as he found her: unclean, uncovered, unmoving. He swallows a handful of Tramadol and shivers himself to sleep. 

He'll have to remember to ask Ada about that call in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo.... comments. Please. You can anon if you prefer!


	5. Tied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Look at yourself, Thomas. Tell me what you see."
> 
> Tommy stares and swallows and ... flounders. What is he supposed to say? He looks like a pale, peculiar creature caught in a beautiful net. 
> 
> "You don't like looking?" Solomons says. 
> 
> Tommy drops his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for dark themes, unhealthy relationship dynamics, mentions of suicide and drug abuse. 
> 
> Thanks to Muse for reading through another mess of smut and emotions. And please head to tumblr to see the beautiful Dom!Alfie painting koi has done for this work. (Mintjamsblog).

"Is that ice I see?"

The words drip into Tommy's consciousness like tiny spots of acid.

"Has hell finally frozen over?"

He wakes to the sight of his sister standing at the foot of his bed — arms folded, brows knitted — which is as unwelcome as it is unexpected.

"You look like absolute fucking shit, Tommy."

"Yeah, well," he says. _Absolute fucking shit'd be an improvement_. "It was my fortieth last night."

Ada bends down beside the bed and scoops up a plastic bottle; two pills rattle forlornly in the bottom. "How many of these have you taken?"

"A few." His voice is thick in his throat and he coughs to clear it, repulsed by the wetness that leaks out of him as he shifts. 

"Define _few,_ Tom. It's three o'clock in the afternoon."

 _Fuck_. He rubs his hands over his face and thanks a higher power that somehow, at some point, he ended up under the duvet.

"And where is Chester anyway? I had to use my key." 

"What do you want Ada?"

"I spoke to Laura this morning." 

_Oh Christ._ He inches himself up against the headboard, swallowing down the pain.

"Laura, as in Grace's sister," Ada clarifies. 

"I know who Laura is." He'd dearly like to put on his glasses — sharpen his vision, sharpen his mind — but the bedside table looks a hundred miles away in his sore and squalid state.

Ada sighs and perches at the foot of the bed. "Tommy," she starts in a serious tone. "Laura told me something."

He raises both eyebrows to signal that he's listening.

"Did you know Grace was pregnant? At the time of her death?"

Tommy blinks slowly and feels the blood fall out of his face, as if he's been yanked upwards very suddenly by an invisible force. "Yes," he means to say, but the lie gets stuck in his throat. He swallows around it, once, the sound too loud in his ears. 

"Oh Tommy," Ada says. The words come out sadly, but there's no pity in them. "I'm sorry, I just assumed that you must've known."

He stares at her with a look that's designed to convey nothing.

"Why didn't it come out at the inquest?" she asks. "Surely it would have been relevant?"

"I don't know," Tommy answers. "Didn't attend, did I?" 

He'd been back in hospital at the time due to complications from his injuries — his evidence given by written testimony and the briefest of video links. _Yes he'd returned to his flat to find Grace hanging from the ceiling. No, he didn't know why she was there that day, perhaps to collect some belongings. Yes it was true they'd argued and she'd been staying with her sister for a time. No, she had never given any indication she was planning to take her own life._

"She seems to think you were cheating on Grace. Before she, well, before she—" 

"I know." Tommy stares at his sister and waits for her to ask if it's true. She doesn't. "Why's Laura telling me now?" he asks.

"She's only just found out herself. She's pregnant — some mix up with medical records; her GP pulled up the wrong notes."

"It was on Grace's doctor's notes?" he says. "So she _knew_."

"Seems that way, yes. But Laura swears it wasn't mentioned in the post mortem."

"Or the Coroner's report."

Ada lights two cigarettes and passes one to Tommy. They sit in silence.

"Is everything alright Tommy?" Ada asks. "I don't mean _this_. I mean in gen—"

"M'fine," he says, resting his head against the headboard. "I think you should go."

"When will Chester be back?"

He shrugs. "Soon." _Probably_.

"Why don't I stay until he gets here, I'm not sure you should be on your own."

"Ada, I'm fine," he repeats, his tone emphatic enough that she reluctantly gets up. 

"You need to call her, Tommy. But I warn you, she's pretty angry." 

He nods.

She waves the bottle of pills at him as she turns to leave. "And stay the fuck off these."

He waits for the front door's familiar slam before yelling at the top of his voice. " _Fuck!"_ Something bloody stinks and it isn't just the sheets.

***

Chester is disturbingly nice to him when he gets home that evening. Tommy lies curled on the living room sofa, laptop by his side. He braces himself for the sneering comment about his hoody and tracksuit bottoms, but instead a brown paper takeaway bag is dangled around the doorframe.

"You hungry?" Chester asks. "I brought your favourite: spring rolls and tom yum soup."

"Thanks," Tommy says. He doesn't ask what's kept Chester out of the house all day on a Sunday — perhaps he's feeling guilty. It happens occasionally. 

The food is good, chilli slowly warming him as it burns its way to his stomach; he hadn't realised how cold he was. He's done a bit of research, but not really turned up anything he didn't already know. He'd like to speak to Moss, but it seems he's in Mauritius for his anniversary, so that's going to have to wait.

"Ada came round while you were out," he says, as if he doesn't know how much it annoys Chester when she drops by unannounced. 

"Oh?"

"Grace was pregnant." 

Chester continues to shovel noodles into his mouth and it's obvious to Tommy. "But you already knew that."

Chester sighs. "It seemed needlessly cruel to burden you or the family with that detail. I had the pathologist omit it."

"That detail?" Tommy repeats. "That detail?"

"Yes."

"That _detail_ was my fucking child!"

"Oh come now, Thomas. You don't know that."

"What did you say?"

Tommy's mouth opens again but he can't get any words to come out. It's the first time the thought has occurred to him, that the baby might not have been his; he has no idea whether he's more livid at Chester for the insinuation or himself for the flicker of doubt. Why hadn't Grace told him? Is that why she'd come to the flat that day? But then why would she kill herself? Kill their baby? Things hadn't exactly been perfect, but did she really hate him that much?

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It's just that you were hardly _together_ and there was that Clive chap from the New York office who seemed ... well ... I just wanted to spare you the pain." Chester shifts onto the sofa and sits a little too close. "You have to understand how it looked, Thomas, to the officers who arrived at the scene—"

"I couldn't fucking _leave_ her there," Tommy says, head slumping onto his knees. Chester's hand rests on his back and he doesn't have the will to object. A torrent of sadness rushes through him and washes his fight down the drain. If only he didn't feel like shit. If only his head was straight.

"Be very careful what you go digging into, Thomas. You're lucky Moss was the senior investigating officer."

Chester sleeps in Tommy's bed that night. And for the rest of the week, even when Tommy wakes up gasping in the middle of the night. He manages, through shivering nausea and a ludicrous schedule, to make one bottle of pills last all week. Tapering down. He can't afford to be this much of a mess.

By the time Friday lunchtime rolls around, the nervous anticipation has set in. But what is usually mixed into a thrilling cocktail with a heavy streak of defiance, today sits in his stomach like a growing knot of fear. Last week's session is fresh in his mind and he knows he's not up to the challenge. Chester, for all his uncharacteristic gentleness, won't hear of cancelling. 

*******

"Strip," Solomons says in that voice that makes Tommy feel the need to comply. "Ever been caned, Thomas?" he asks.

"No," he answers quietly. Solomons busies himself pulling various lengths of rattan from a bucket of water, laying them out on a towel draped across the table. Tommy pretends not to watch him rearrange them in order from thinnest to thickest; he wishes his body was above reacting to such an obvious attempt to intimidate. It isn't. He undoes his shirt's top button and the swarm of butterflies in his empty stomach threatens to fly out of his throat.

He concentrates on the movement of his fingers, on undressing quickly enough to avoid a slap but not so fast as to show his fear. He hasn't looked at the bruises this week — he knows well enough that they're bad — but as he steps out of his boxers it strikes him how demeaning it is. To stand here with his skin marked purple and green by someone else's hands. 

"Fuck me," Solomons says, moving closer. He grazes his fingers over Tommy's arse, causing goose-bumps to break the skin. "Someone's had quite the session." 

"A birthday present," Chester says, with a smile that challenges either to disagree. Perhaps he even believes it himself, now that the deed is done.

"Right. Well, that is a shame," Solomons says. "Calls for a change of plan."

"I'm fine," Tommy says.

Solomons circles once more and raises his eyebrows. "Is that right?" He reaches back to squeeze one buttock. Tommy tries to stop himself, but rises up on his toes.

"Yeah, s'not gonna work at all." Solomons shakes his head and walks towards the door. "Put your shirt back on, sweetie." 

_Shit,_ he doesn't want to leave. Which is absurd but also, true. Even worse than the thought of a caning is the thought of being sent home. "I'll be fine," he says again, in a voice that's meant to sound more emphatic but in the cool silence of this underground room, misses by a mile.

Chester shifts awkwardly on the sofa. "If he says he's fine, I'm sure he is. He's a tough one is our Thomas." 

Solomons repeats himself. "I said, put your shirt back on." He walks over, when Tommy doesn't move, holding the shirt out on one finger. "Do as you're told. You're cold."

Tommy feels ridiculous. Like a schoolboy getting the answer wrong in front of the rest of the class. He puts the shirt back on.

Solomons grunts and looks around the room, as if scanning for something to use. He settles on one of the wooden chairs and sets it in front of the mirror. He fetches an armful of bright red ropes and unwinds one neat bundle, laying two ropes across the wooden seat, from front to back. A moment later he, picks them up, ties a knot in the middle, and drapes them back across the seat.

"Sit down," he says, nodding at the chair.

"Arms behind you," Solomons says. "I'm going to tie your wrists."

It's familiar enough, having a band of rope knotted securely above his hands. But then a second band is tied a few inches above the first, locking his forearms together. And a third, above his elbows.

"Heating's on, you'll soon warm up," Solomons says.

Solomons tugs at the bindings, bunched over the sleeves of Tommy's shirt. It's significantly more restricting, having his arms bound higher up. He watches Solomons in the mirror, movements swift but efficient, like a craftsman taking great care. He twists and wraps and pulls the ropes, tutting occasionally when he isn't pleased and tying the knots again. Tommy can feel Chester watching him; he glances over to check.

"Eyes on me," Solomons says, somehow catching the way Tommy's gaze has drifted, despite never having taken his eyes off the ropes in his hands. Tommy looks into the mirror and swallows as a fourth band of rope is lashed around his biceps. The tension is increasing, affecting the rest of his body. Solomons drags the ropes upwards, tugging until Tommy's shoulder blades are cinched together; the movement forces his chest up and out, opening his ribs.

"Any pain?" Solomons asks. "Tingling?" 

"No." Tommy feels completely immobilised, and a little apprehensive. The ropes are holding him tight, but he isn't — surprisingly — uncomfortable.

"The next part is called a chest harness. It'll force you to concentrate."

Solomons reaches down to the floor and brings up a pair of scissors. He proceeds to cut the starched collar clean off Tommy's shirt. "I'm sure you can afford another."

Tommy is too taken aback to be annoyed.

"Shibari," Solomons says, bringing two new ropes into play. "Japanese rope bondage."

Tommy's heard of it, seen pictures — usually involving petite women hogtied on the floor. The thought makes him want to shrivel up.

"The Samurai used it as a means of restraining and transporting prisoners." Solomons' fingers move deftly across Tommy's neck, tying an intricate knot right over his left clavicle. 

"That's your jugular notch," Solomons explains, pressing the dip in Tommy's throat. "I could put a knot there, to seriously restrict your breathing, but we'll start with something a little easier, I think." He proceeds to tie another knot, this one over the right clavicle. "The beauty of the art is that prisoners could choose to submit easily, or struggle and deal with the consequences."

Tommy strains instinctively, as if to test Solomons's words. He's rewarded with two knuckles of rope digging into his collar bones. It's painful enough that he hisses.

"Didn't work out too well for the sort inclined to panic."

Chester snorts behind them and covers it with a cough.

Solomons ignores him. "But otherwise it was a very effective method of ensuring calm compliance." He sniffs, pulling the ropes diagonally across Tommy's chest. "That's when it weren't being used as a form of torture, of course."

Tommy huffs a nervous laugh and again feels the bite of the ropes. The game is suddenly obvious; it's up to him not to fight.

"I'm not tryin' to hurt you, Sweetheart," Solomons says, looking up. "I'm tryin' to make you relax."

Tommy's eyes flick back to Chester and the sinister smile on his face.

"Watch _me_ Thomas, not 'im." The words slip quietly into Tommy's ear, like a secret shared between friends. Which is ridiculous. They aren't friends. This is a transaction.

Solomons moves round in front of Tommy and opens the buttons of his ruined shirt, pushing the front panels out to the sides. Tommy shivers as cool air licks over his stomach and chest. Everything feels like a contrast: the rope itself isn't too rough, but the tension through it is rigid; the weaving movements are gentle but the knots dig in if he moves. Solomons's fingers are warm and careful as they move across his skin. He tries to relax as he watches an intricate diamond pattern take shape across his torso. It feels intimate. Intimidating. Being the focus of so much attention, being forced to sit still and watch. 

"Look at you," Solomons says when, after several long minutes, he pauses. He comes to stand behind the chair and rests his hands on Tommy's shoulders. Tommy flushes under the scrutiny and tries not to lock eyes in the mirror. He looks over, instead, to see Chester, who's fidgeting and tapping his foot in a subtle display of boredom. 

This time Solomons tuts and reaches for Tommy's chin, yanking his head back round to face himself in the mirror. "Look at _yourself_ , Thomas. Tell me what you see."

Tommy stares and swallows and ... flounders. What is he supposed to say? He looks like a pale, peculiar creature caught in a beautiful net. 

"You don't like looking?" Solomons says. 

Tommy drops his eyes.

There's a long pause whilst Solomons seems to absorb this revelation. "Maybe a blindfold would help." 

Tommy's slightly ashamed of how relieved he is at the suggestion. "Maybe," he says quietly. Inside he's screaming, _yes_.

"Okay," Solomons answers, turning towards the cabinet. Tommy waits with his head bowed low, appalled at his own admission. But when he glances into the mirror again it's Chester being blindfolded

"I don't—" Chester says, with an awkward swipe of his hands. Solomons stands undeterred, a length of black cloth poised in mid air.

"Now, now, Mr Campbell. You've interfered with my plans for this evening. I think it's only fair if I interfere with yours."

Chester huffs indignantly and mumbles some stuttering protest.

"Unless you'd prefer to leave, of course?" Solomons says.

At that, Chester raises both palms in the air and allows the cloth to be tied.

"You'd be surprised how much you can learn, Mr Campbell, when you're forced to really listen." 

For the next fifteen minutes Tommy sits in silence, achingly aware that Chester is waiting, hungry as a starved dog for sounds of his discomfort. Solomons works in silence too, binding Tommy's lower body, brows sunk into a heavy line that almost hides his eyes. By the time he's finished Tommy's feet aren't even on the floor. A ladder-work of ropes now binds each calf against each thigh and his ankles are tightly tethered to the back legs of the chair. It feels snug and yet startlingly vulnerable.

"Very fuckin' flexible," Solomons says, standing up and stretching his back; two large cartlidge-cracks break the warm, quiet air. "Now for the final two." 

_The final two_ , it soon becomes evident, are the ropes that Tommy first sat on, the ones that run beneath his body from the front to the back of the seat. Solomons ties them tightly, like a sling that runs between the cheeks of Tommy's arse, parting around his cock and balls to be secured below his stomach. Solomons squeezes a hand between Tommy's arse and the seat of the chair, positioning the knot so it's nestled hard against his perineum. With a final adjustment at Tommy's back, the rope is secured in place with just a little too much tension. 

"Beautiful," Solomons whispers. "Like a captured merman."

Tommy flushes furiously at the frivolous comparison. He feels more like a prisoner, at the mercy of this man's will. He looks at himself in the mirror and tries to take a deep breath; every rope tightens against him in an intense form of embrace; it's strangely comforting. Each subsequent breath reminds him of exactly how firmly he's held. Solomons watches, stony-faced, as Tommy comes to terms with the boundaries of his predicament. There's a stillness to the way he's standing that Tommy's not seen before, calm and yet dangerous. But then Chester clears his throat, and the moment breaks like a wave on the rocks.

Solomons sniffs and turns away, disappearing behind a door at one end of the room. He returns a moment later with a bottle of water and a small box which he places on the floor. He drags a chair up behind Tommy's and sits so close his thighs wrap around the outside of Tommy's own. The heat of Solomons's chest is warm against his roped-up arms.

"Drink," Solomons says, lifting the bottle to Tommy's lips. Tommy flinches as a drop of cold water runs down his chin and onto his chest. "Relax, Thomas. I told you, I'm not trying to hurt you. I want you to feel safe."

Safe. _Safe_ is something Tommy hasn't felt since he was four or five years old. Since he learnt that _gypsy_ wasn't a name you could hide beneath your clothes ... that cleverness couldn't protect him ... that his father's strength was a curse ... that the parts of his mother that mattered most were lost to another world. 

Solomons wraps a hand around Tommy's throat and tips his head back, holding it against his shoulder as his other hand walks down the ribs of scarlet rope. His breath is warm on Tommy's neck as he plucks lightly at each nipple, squeezing until it almost hurts, then moving further south. He wraps his hand around Tommy's half-hard cock and strokes — once, twice, three times — until Tommy exhales a shaky breath and shudders.

"You move too much," Solomons says, releasing the grip on his throat; the next thing Tommy knows there's something sharp against his thigh. A bottle-top. Solomons slides it beneath a knot at the top of his inner thigh, forcing the frilly metal edge to bite against his skin. He does the same to the other leg.

"They'll only hurt if you move, Thomas," he says, reaching into his pocket. He presses two more bottle-tops into position, one against each of Tommy's lower ribs; two more against the tender skin on the inside of his upper arms. Tommy is now even more startlingly aware of every breath he takes, of how the expansion of his ribcage can increase or lessen the pain. It doesn't take him long to modify his breathing, until it's consistently shallow. Quiet.

"There you go," Solomons says, watching him in the mirror. "Knew you'd be a quick learner."

Despite his apprehension — or maybe because of it — Tommy is achingly hard. He can see his cock curving up towards his stomach, framed by a shock of dark hair and outlined by red ropes. It looks unusually obscene and yet Solomons avoids it. He runs his fingers everywhere else, tracing the spaces between the ropes, rubbing his beard against Tommy's neck, nuzzling the shell of his ear. Tommy feels light-headed, whether from the superficial breathing or from how much the touches make him _want_. His head tips back of its own accord to rest on Solomons's shoulder again. Then, and only then, does Solomons touch him _there,_ encircling Tommy with his arms as his hands lock around Tommy's cock. 

Tommy inhales sharply, the air a shock to his lungs. The ropes squeeze hard around his chest and the metal bites his skin. It takes a moment to calm himself as Solomons starts to move ... slow, warm hands sliding up and down. He wants to groan with pleasure, with relief, but he's determined not to give Chester the satisfaction of hearing his submission.

For the next twenty minutes he is helpless in Solomons's arms, stroked until he's panting as silently as he can. He can't stop his hips from stuttering, from chasing the tortuous pleasure, despite the bite of the bottle-tops and the chafing of the ropes.

"Shhhhh," Solomons murmurs every time he gets too close, slowing his hands until Tommy's frustration melds into resignation. "Just let the ropes hold you."

The fifth time he's brought to the brink Tommy's frustration tips into anger. He growls loudly through clenched teeth when Solomons warns, "not yet." 

"Tsk." He hears Chester's disapproval before he glances up to see the smile. He looks as pleased with Tommy's failure as Tommy is dismayed.

Solomons tuts himself and pushes his chair back with a screech, returning a moment later with a lengthy leather flogger. "Someone needs to calm down," he says with that steady poker-face.

Tommy screws his eyes shut at the sight of the implement, but Solomons dangles it, like a curtain, right over his face. "This is a fifty-tail flogger," he says, drawing the leather tails backwards over Tommy's head. "Should help you relax."

Tommy is suddenly furious, straining forward in the chair. He's livid with himself as much as Solomons, for letting his guard down. For letting the quiet intimacy of a few moments ago unbalance him. The ropes and bottle tops gnaw at his skin as he tenses against the bonds, but he can't seem to stop himself from struggling. Until the first strike of leather hits him square across the chest and knocks the air from his lungs. It's alarming rather than painful, a splash of sharp sensation that chases the anger away.

The next strike hits his inner thigh, and this hurts more than the first — the ends of the fronds catch on his cock, leaving miriad pinpricks of pain. Solomons stands in front of him, legs wide and strong as that wooden cross. He raises the flogger above his head and brings it down across Tommy's other thigh, helplessly splayed by the ropes. He builds up a rhythmic pattern, swishing the flogger through the air — shoulder, torso, shoulder, thigh, thigh and back to torso.

He's clearly not using all of his strength, but by the sixth repeat of the pattern Tommy's skin is stippled red. Solomons's face remains impassive as he slowly speeds up his movements, bringing the leather down faster and with gradually more weight. Tommy feels hot all over, panting now with every swipe, and when Solomons tells him to, "just relax," he's amazed by his own compliance. His head is surprisingly blank against the hotness of this pain. Solomons keeps up the lashes until Tommy is swimming in them, until he barely flinches as each one lands and reacts only with a soft, 'ah," sound.

He finds himself staring up at the ceiling, head tipped back, throat bared, with no idea how long it's lasted or when, in fact, it stopped. Solomons is standing over him, straddling his thighs. He runs a thumb over Tommy's cheek and whispers, 

"There. Much better." 

His face is so close to Tommy's own that the room looks almost black. He isn't prepared for the gentle hand that squeezes his dripping cock, nor for the undignified sound that tries to escape his lips. Until Solomons swallows it down. With his mouth. Clamped firmly over Tommy's. He opens wide for the soft, wet tongue that licks across his own.

"You can take some more," Solomons says, smiling as he straightens himself. 

The words make Tommy's stomach clench, and Solomons moves away. This time he brings the chair around and sits in front of Tommy. He takes the black box from the floor and opens it to reveal a chilling miniature replica of the rattan canes at the start — a set of silver metal rods arranged in order of size, thinnest to thickest. Solomons selects the second thinnest rod and says nothing as he squeezes a small sachet of lube onto its end. The way he stares at the tip of Tommy's cock as he pulls the foreskin back tells Tommy his worst fears are right.

"You want me to talk you through it?" Solomons asks.

Tommy shakes his head. The last thing he wants is Chester to know what he's about to endure.

"Safeword?" Solomons says.

Tommy shakes his head again.

Solomons mouth turns up a fraction. "What _is_ your safeword Thomas?"

"January," he whispers. 

The silence is awkward and deafening as Solomons holds him still. He traces the slick rod around the head of Tommy's cock, letting him feel the cool weight of the metal as it teases his foreskin. And then he presses it in. Slowly. Relentlessly. Until the rounded tip has disappeared and gravity pulls it down ... further ... further ... spreading his cock from the inside. 

Any hope he had of keeping the sounds to himself vanishes; he can't hold back an obscene groan as the metal spreads him wide. When it won't go any further, Solomons adds a hand, twisting the shaft of Tommy's cock as he pulls the rod slowly out. Tommy arches his back and growls and strains; he's never felt so violated.

"I don't think you're happy unless you're pushing yourself," Solomons says. "Unless you're _being_ pushed."

The only response Tommy can muster is a childish sounding whimper. 

It's not pleasure, not pain, but something else entirely, a rush of pure sensation that ebbs and flows with the movement of Solomons's hands. He stops at exactly the right point each time, when it's almost too much ... when it _is_ too much ... then twists and pulls the rod back out as he strokes with his other hand. Until Tommy is overwhelmed, a mess of conflicting sensations, clenching his teeth together in a futile attempt to stay still. He's moving too much, and he's utterly trapped and he's making too much noise and he wants it to stop immediately or never stop at all. He feels like such a failure, gasping little high-pitched sounds that he desperately tries to hold in. He's being dragged over gravel by his own desire, with shame clinging onto his feet — every stroke of stimulation another bump in the road. He's coming undone so slowly it _hurts_ and Solomons can tell. But he will come undone, he knows it this time, the twist of those hands is too clever, too sure, too focused on his demise.

"Come for me, Thomas," Solomons says, leaning in close to his face. Whatever frightful sounds he makes are sealed within Solomons' mouth, muffled by beard and tongue and lips that cover them with a growl.

It goes on for a minute at least, spasms pulsing through him as he comes around the rod. Solomons doesn't step away until his body's entirely limp, until the stainless steel has been pulled out with the precision of a surgeon. He's glad of the ropes that hold him up.

The buzz of a mobile phone rouses Tommy from his daze. He lifts his head to see Chester staring at a glowing screen, the blindfold in his hand. "I'm sorry, I have to take this," he says, rising from the sofa.

"Be my guest," Solomons says. "Use the waiting room."

Tommy's glad to watch him go, but how much did he see?

***

Half an hour later he wakes to a hand stroking through his hair. He's laid on his side on a double bed in a tiny, darkened room. He recognises it as the bed he laid on for a few minutes last week, when Solomons had insisted that he couldn't walk straight to the car. 

"Time to take these off, Sweetheart," he says, fiddling at Tommy's back.

Tommy looks down and realises his chest and arms are still tightly bound. Strange that he could sleep like this.

"You'll have some pretty marks tomorrow," Solomons says, tracing the indentations left behind by the ropes. "Unlike these," he mumbles as his hands skim Tommy's arse. 

Tommy swallows and looks over his shoulder, just as Chester walks through the door.

"I am _so_ sorry, Mr Solomons, an urgent work problem," he says. "My role is a little _delicate_. Sometimes it can't be avoided."

He sits on the side of the bed and strokes Tommy's freshly untethered arm.

"You sounded rather delicate yourself at the end there, Thomas."

Solomons makes no comment, just continues with his task.

"Just one thing though," Chester says. "I thought _kissing_ was frowned upon in your line of work."

"Whatever gave you that impression?" Solomons says. "I use all the tools at my disposal to make a sub come undone."

And of course, Tommy knows, he's just a sub.

A job.

A problem to be solved.

So it makes no sense that he feels like he's unravelling with the ropes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What am I doing? Talk to me!


	6. Bare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chester is harsh and callous and rough and sometimes Tommy hates him, but mostly he thinks what's the point? Love and hate are merely two points on the same viscious circle of life. Always have been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: more mentions of suicide; abusive relationship and generally dark themes.
> 
> With thanks to the wonderful muse for wading through this more than once and keeping me on the straight and narrow!

Tommy's been hiding in the bath for the past hour, staring at the indentations that criss-cross his body like a phantom rope. The marks have all but soaked away, leaving him with six circular bruises, delicate and dark pink, like little open mouths. He traces them with a fingertip and his stomach flutters like a teenager's, briefly ruffling the blanket of dread that's settled over him. Pathetic to be thinking about that man all these hours later; Solomons is clearly a seasoned professional, and all the more dangerous for it. Tommy pulls himself out of the tepid water and back into the real world. 

The strong, sour scent of coffee wafts up the stairs and swamps him as he dresses. What he craves is tea, hot and weak, the sort his mother used to make to ward off the specific, aching cold that only emanates from inside. He opts for jeans and a woollen jumper and his thickest pair of socks.

Tommy's come to hate weekends; they wait for him like ominous ravines across which he must sling a tightrope that stretches to Monday morning, to the safety of _no-time-to-think_.

"Good morning," Chester says, as Tommy shuffles into the kitchen. "How are you feeling?"

Tommy raises his eyebrows, immediately wary of the question. The honest answer is _loose._ Not loose in the sense of relaxed, but in the sense that his joints aren't working properly or his skin isn't doing an adequate job of holding him together. "M'fine," he says.

"Apparently I'm to be very kind and reassuring today," Chester says. He slides off the barstool and wraps his arms around Tommy, as he reads from the screen of his phone, "... provide him with plenty of physical contact. It's normal to feel _exhausted_ or even _overwhelmed_."

The thought of Solomons and Chester discussing him like this makes something in Tommy short-circuit — his stomach burns and his body goes rigid, hard against the embrace.

"What _loverboy_ doesn't realise is that hugging _you_ is like hugging a knife," Chester says, letting him go.

"Stop fucking calling him that." 

"Why? The way you kissed him, Thomas, looked like you thought he _meant_ it." 

"He kissed _me_. And I know what it was."

"And yet you kissed him back."

"Fuck off," Tommy mumbles, opening the fridge (purely for somewhere to look; he has no intention of eating).

"No need to be rude," Chester tuts. "I've made you coffee."

"I want tea."

Chester ignores him, pouring coffee into a mug emblazoned with _I'm a ray of fucking sunshine_ in jaunty yellow letters. A Christmas present from Lizzie. 

"No need to sulk, Thomas. No shame in having a little _crush_." Chester smiles sweetly and Tommy feels his stomach curl. "I thought we could go for a hike today. Clear the cobwebs. Drive out to Epping Forest and take—"

"I'm going to Birmingham." The idea is as fresh to Tommy's mind as the words are to his tongue, (the impulse to flee always strongest when he's not in a fit state to fight). "I need to speak to Lizzie. It's the charity gala in two weeks and there's a lot that needs to be done."

"Nice of you to warn me," Chester says, in a voice that oozes suspicion. But they both know how important the gala is — major exposure for the Small Heath Foundation and a chance for Chester to schmooze the right people, enhance his personal brand.

"Well I hope everything's in hand, Thomas. You know the Commissioner's coming."

"And the Mayor," Tommy says without interest. "And at least one minor royal."

"Chop chop then, darling, best get going. I wouldn't want to keep you from such selfless charitable endeavours."

***

Tommy stops at Laura's flat on his way to Marylebone station. She hasn't answered his calls all week and she doesn't answer her door. However much she wanted to speak to him, she seems to have changed her mind.

An hour later he's on a train to Birmingham. Despite his hatred of public transport, he felt too tired to drive. He messages Lizzie and arranges to meet her at the Burlington, then stares out of the window for the remaining two hours, hugging the ill-defined dread around him as he fails to drift off to sleep. 

"What is it this time?" Lizzie asks, as she enters the dimly-lit hotel bar. It's all shining mahogany and dark leather, a rather heavy-handed attempt at gentlemen's-club appeal.

Her lips thin as she passes the bottle of painkillers across the gleaming table. 

"Legs or back?" she asks. "Or just a heavy night?" She doesn't expect an answer and Tommy doesn't give one; he unscrews the cap immediately and swallows three tablets with a single gulp of his Bloody Mary. It's not enough, but it's better than nothing; the vodka will do the rest.

They run down the list of politicians, hedge-fund managers, and minor celebrities they've managed to attract for the gala, as well as the list of prizes they'll be putting out for bids. "We need another five items to auction," Tommy says, finding comfort in firing out actions. "Speak to May, she can offer something to do with the horses. A lesson with one of her jockeys, or ... something money can't buy..." He waves his hand in the air.

Lizzie sighs and sounds exasperated, but he knows she'll make it work. "The brochure goes to print next week, Tom. This needs to be settled by Monday."

"Best get on the case then, eh?"

"Fine. Not like I had any plans this weekend."

"Drink?" Tommy asks.

"No thanks. Look. About the other matter," Lizzie says, lowering her voice. "I looked up that pathologist you asked about. Harold Lythgoe." She passes a photocopy of a newspaper cutting across the table. "He's dead." 

Tommy reads the small obituary:

_"...Harold Lythgoe, respected pathologist, passed away suddenly 1st June. Will be greatly missed by his wife and son. Funeral to be held 11th June, all enquiries to A. A. Pine Funeral Directors, Tel..."_

"Suddenly?" Tommy queries.

"Heart attack at home earlier this year," Lizzie says. "Age 62, his wife was present. Doesn't look suspicious." 

_Fuck_. 

"Tommy, I don't know what you're after, but given he conducted Grace's post mortem, I took the liberty of obtaining this." Lizzie reaches into her large handbag and passes an A4 envelope across the table. "It's the autopsy report."

Tommy rubs his face with both hands.

This guy—" she slides over a business card for a _Martin Hunt MS, FRCPath,_ "—is prepared to review it. He'll spare you an hour at five."

Tommy looks down at the envelope and wonders how she's done it. 

"You're not the only one with connections you know," Lizzie smiles.

"Thanks," he says. And means it. 

He retreats to a booth by the window once Lizzie has left the bar, sliding into the cocoon of a high-backed leather bench-seat before he opens the envelope. Seeing _Grace Burgess_ in black and white leaves him feeling blank, like she's a character in a book he once read. He skims the report as he might the pages of a second-rate thriller — underwhelmed by its predictability.

The rest of the afternoon he spends drinking a bottle of burgundy, staring down at the army of Saturday-shoppers who swarm Burlington Arcade. They clutch — their coloured bags like ants dragging leaves to their nests. 

At five o'clock sharp a tall man arrives at Tommy's table. Martin Hunt is silver-haired and long-nosed and slim as a surgeon's knife. He takes the papers from Tommy's hands and reads them with purpose for ten long minutes.

"Suicide," he says when he looks back up. "What are you after, Mr Shelby?"

"She was pregnant." Tommy waits.

"Pregnant?" Hunt says, squinting against the low sun. "You're sure?"

"Ten weeks," Tommy says firmly. "How could the pathologist record the contents of her stomach — the croissant she'd eaten for breakfast, the salmon she'd had for lunch — but miss the presence of a foetus?" He feels nauseous as he speaks, gripping his thigh beneath the table, finding one little bottle-top bruise and pressing around its edge. 

"Are you asking me about Harold Lythgoe, or about the cause of death?"

"I don't know, Mr Hunt. You tell me."

"Well. There are those in my profession that have been known to omit certain _delicate_ facts. Details of abuse or suffering that might upset the family."

"And Lythgoe?"

"Never did anything for the benefit of anyone else."

"So this wasn't an act of benevolence?"

"Harold Lythgoe was, in my opinion, as easy to buy as a candy cane at Christmas. And just as bloody bent." 

Tommy sighs deeply. "And is there any other possible cause of death?"

Hunt leans back in his seat. "The physical evidence, as described here, does indicate hanging."

Tommy doesn't want to sound desperate, but he has to ask. "There was no suicide note, no prior sign of intent ... is there _any_ other explanation?"

Hunt hesitates, shaking his head slowly. "Technically it is _possible_ ..." He seems to consider his thoughts for a moment before continuing, "...although _extremely_ unlikely."

"Humour me, Mr Hunt."

"There is almost nothing to distinguish the marks left by a ligature from the marks left by hanging. So it is _possible_ , but I repeat, _unlikely_ , that the tie found around Miss Burgess's neck could have been used as a ligature."

"And the body subsequently hanged."

"Yes."

"How unlikely?"

"Very. There are no marks to indicate a struggle, so I'd say she'd have had to have known the hypothetical attacker — or been taken by surprise. He would have had to have been of significant size and strength to overpower her quickly and would have had to have known _exactly_ what he was doing; to pull the tie back and _up_ , so as to mimic the direction of tissue damage."

"What if other marks were omitted from the report?"

"I can attempt to access the photographic images attached to this record. They would tell me more."

Tommy clenches his teeth hard and tries to remain impassive, reminding himself this is merely a novel, a plot he's checking for holes. "Yes," he nods. "Please."

Hunt leaves with a business card and a promise to call Tommy later in the week. "Don't leave any messages," Tommy says. "If I can't pick up I'll call back." 

He stays in the bar til long after the sun has gone down. He thinks about calling Polly, asking her to meet for a drink, but decides he can't bring himself to field the questions about what he's doing here, alone, at the weekend.

Instead he books a room and lies beneath the covers; giving in to the crippling tiredness he's dragged around all day. It's here that the danger lies: in the sliver of space between sleep and wakefulness, where his carefully constructed mental compartments develop little holes. Every time he's on the cusp of slipping under, his nerves light up with static, shocking him back to semi-consciousness with unwelcome images. He tries not to picture the photographs of Grace's incised body; not to imagine the size of a ten week old foetus; not to hear Chester's voice in his head ... _she was too delicate for you Thomas ...._

So delicate she's dead. 

Chester isn't delicate. Chester is harsh and callous and rough and sometimes Tommy hates him, but mostly he thinks, _what's the point_? Love and hate have always been two points on the same vicious circle of life. He loved his mother far too much and hated the way she left them, hated the fact he loved his father despite the constant fear. Love is a weapon that works against you — much like pleasure itself — if you let yourself get sucked in by it then the pain that follows is worse. Much easier to seek out the pain, to bring it on yourself: if you pay your dues to pleasure up front you'll never be in debt.

There is, of course, the troublesome fact that part of him _likes_ the pain. Likes the way it quiets his mind and offers a moment's respite. From the constant struggle to survive, to succeed, to _prove_ something ... he's long since forgotten what. He's simply a salmon swimming upstream, moving entirely on instinct — if he doesn't expire on the journey, he'll likely die when he gets there — he may as well fight all the way.

Except that he didn't fight Solomons. Solomons tied him so tightly that he was forced to still himself; Tommy loathes the comfort he felt inside those bonds — almost as much as he wants it now. He slides a hand inside his shorts and challenges himself to breathe as gently as he did last night — as if the ropes were still in place — slow and shallow. In and out. Until he's dizzy with it. Dizzy with the memory of the leather heating his skin. Dizzy with the thought of the metal, cold and hard inside him. Mortified at the whimpering sounds of his own degradation and — even worse than _any_ of that — drawn to the thought of the soft, hot mouth that sucked those sounds away.

He comes hard, curled on his side, gasping like a landed fish — his open mouth pressed wide against the blue-white underside of his upper arm. He sucks on the slippery mark he's made, and finds a few hours' sleep.

***

In the morning he rearranges the rigid boxes in his mind. Business, charity, Chester. Track down Laura. Speak to Moss. He pushes Solomons firmly back into the box marked _Friday_ _night_ and determines not to think of him for the rest of the week. For good measure, he bins the bottle of pills and sets his mind to tracking down the man Grace was supposedly close to.

Clive MacMillon, formerly of the Shelby Company New York office, works for a law firm in the City. Tommy meets him on Monday morning at a busy coffee-shop near Bank. It's easy to see what Grace might have seen in him — with his light hair and kind eyes and gentle, graceful hands.

He turns out to be considerably more jagged than he looks.

"I don't have to answer to you, Mr Shelby. You didn't own her. You didn't even make her happy."

Tommy had planned to raise the issue of Grace's pregnancy with a modicum of compassion; instead he throws it like a poisoned-dart, with all the spite of jealousy.

MacMillon looks taken aback. "You know she was fucking terrified, don't you?"

Tommy's not sure what he means.

"She was convinced she was being followed. Terrified she'd end up attacked, like you, beaten to shit. Or worse."

"Could it have been yours, Mr MacMillon?"

"And she couldn't confide in anyone, because she'd already lost her entire family for standing with you. All except for that hapless sister at least." 

"Could the baby have been yours?" Tommy repeats.

"That's none of your bloody business." MacMillon stands, but Tommy grips his wrist before he can make an exit; there's a moment of shared hatred as they stare each other down. Tommy doesn't want to make a scene, but he will if the need arises.

"I can't have children. I'm infertile," MacMillon spits, before he wrenches his arm away. "I'm sorry if that doesn't satisfy your morbid curiosity." 

***

The rest of the week crawls by on its knees; Tommy lurches from meeting to meeting until he finally catches up with Moss, freshly returned from Mauritius. He looks tanned and relaxed and rather annoyed to be stopped on his way to work on a Thursday morning. 

"What do I think?" he asks, eyebrows raised. They're sitting in Moss's car. "She was hanged with your tie. You were holding the body. You were mixed up with vicious Albanians and your DNA was everywhere."

"I fucking _lived_ there!"

"And as for that display of shock ..." Moss makes a dismissive noise that sounds dangerously close to a laugh, " ... seriously overplayed. Don't give up the day job, Mr Shelby — you wouldn't last long on the stage."

Tommy's blood is curdling in his veins, making his heart beat thick and hard against his ribs.

Moss taps his fingers on the steering wheel. "If I was going to fake a suicide, I'd come to you for the playbook."

"Then why was I never charged?"

"We both know the answer to that, don't we? Because you were already sleeping with _him_."

"I wasn't fucking—"

"—no? Cause Campbell told me that's _exactly_ what you were doing. _Fucking_." Moss curls his lip in disgust and Tommy _is_ disgusted. Because it's true. He was sleeping with Chester long before Grace's death.

"Very fucking convenient, I must say," Moss continues, "getting your little girlfriend out of the way. Although it might have been easier to dump her like any normal human being."

Tommy holds the shreds of his temper; he knew how Moss would be. "So you took your bloody promotion, and to hell with what's right or wrong?" Tommy scoffs. "I was wondering how a police inspector could afford a resort like the Oberoi."

"We all do what we have to do. Isn't that right, Mr Shelby?"

***

That night he and Chester dine with Alan Winter, a journalist from the Telegraph. It's the last thing Tommy wants to do but it's all part of Chester's latest PR campaign. If they have to spend their evening in some gauche restaurant, then the least Tommy plans to come away with is publicity for the Foundation. 

Chester is offensively charming from the moment they arrive, laughing at Winter's self-satisfied jokes and down-playing his recent promotion to Deputy Assistant Commissioner. They talk about Chester's work fighting drug-related crime; about Tommy's business success and their picture-perfect life.

"Quite the power couple aren't we? So, what's next, Mr Campbell? First openly gay Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police? Surely you'll have to be married."

Chester laughs a little too loud and Tommy's appetite vanishes. A bottle and a half of Pinot Noir later, the hack tries to find an angle, proposing that Tommy's charity interests are at odds with Chester's job. He turns to Tommy directly.

"So let me get this straight. Your partner, here, takes drug dealers off the streets and _you,"_ he chuckles brightly _, "you_ take them horse-riding? Tell me how that works?"

Tommy's hackles rise like feathers on a fighting cock. "We intervene before they're beyond help. Help them see there are alternatives."

"And how does rewarding violent kids do that exactly? All they have to do is come up with some sob-story about their childhood, surely?"

"These kids have grown up with violence. It isn't a choice they make." Chester throws Tommy a warning glare which he chooses not to see. "Where did you grow up, eh? Alan?"

"On the South Coast."

"New Forest, if memory serves me. Plenty of horses there, eh? Rather more than you find on your average inner-city estate." 

The journalist shrugs his shoulders. "And how do your horses compete with cash from the local drug dealer?"

Tommy could really let loose at this guy, but he keeps a reign on his words. "At least we're doing _something_. Apprenticeships, experience. The Foundation works with other businesses to ring-fence training places for young offenders. Too many bright kids slip through the net; don't have the support systems to follow a straighter path."

"Like you, yourself, Mr Shelby?" Winter sits back, satisfied.

By the time cheese is served the tone has turned markedly frosty, and Chester is digging his heel into the top of Tommy's foot like he's trying to grind bones. They make their excuses before coffee and walk out into the night — Chester spitting sparks. Tommy is crisp as kindling, waiting to be lit, desperate for the flames to catch and burn away the week. 

And catch they do, as soon as the front door closes. The argument turns from the journalist to Tommy's chat with Moss. Because of course that lumbering dog went yapping to Chester, (no doubt got a scratch behind the ears for his loyalty too).

"I _told_ you not to go digging, but you couldn't leave well alone, could you?" Chester's level of quiet rage is something Tommy should probably dread. That he _does_ dread. That he provokes nonetheless. Right up to the moment when he's flat on his back, large hands wrapped around his neck, with, "get those fucking trousers off," being whispered in his ear.

He's deranged enough that he listens, scrambling backwards onto the bed as Chester readies himself. And then the hands are back around his neck and it's harder and harder to breathe and Chester is fucking into him and his whole world splits in two.

It's so quiet. The only sound in Tommy's head is his muscles screaming to relax. And Chester waits, threateningly still, tightening his grip on Tommy's neck until the panic sets in. He smiles when he finally lets go.

"Why?" Tommy gasps as he inhales.

"Why did she do it, Thomas?"

He's not sure if that's the question he was asking, but it's the one that Chester answers. "A good girl, from a good family, shacked up with a murderous thug? She gave up everything for you — her family, her reputation."

Chester starts to move, harsh thrusts to ram home harsh truths. 

"And what did you do, Thomas? You dragged her into your filthy world and treated her like shit. I've spoken to the sister; you were cold and distant and humourless; just like you are with me. And she knew you were cheating on her. Imagine how she felt"

"I wasn't cheating,"

"Oh Thomas," Chester says, pushing out his bottom lip. "You let me fuck you again and again."

"It wasn't—"

"Like you're letting me do it now. You didn't even cry when she died. And you won't cry here, for me. You'll come though, won't you, Thomas? No matter how much it hurts."

Tommy closes his eyes. Against the pain. Against the truth.

"And to find out she was _pregnant_. Whilst you were lying in a hospital bed, beaten half to death by villains she thought might come for her."

"The Albanians ..." Tommy starts. It's a trail he hasn't followed.

"How could she tell her family? How could she feel _safe_? The only question I'd have, Thomas, is why she didn't do it sooner."

Afterwards, Chester lays next to him, stroking the line of his back. "I'm only trying to protect you Thomas. You didn't mean it to happen; in the end it was her decision. And we've moved on, haven't we?. You can't lose your head over the news of some _baby..."_

He says the word like it's preposterous, and maybe he has a point. What sort of selfish, emotionless father would Tommy have made anyway?

"If Grace's family was to reopen the inquest, Thomas, imagine the ripple effect. It would all end up in the papers ... the sordid details, the way you were found ..." 

"I didn't touch her," he mumbles.

"... your childhood ... the infidelity. Your business with the Albanians. The press would convict you, Thomas, even if the courts did not. God knows the Burgesses have the resources. It would be the end of your Foundation, of everything you've worked for."

Tommy feels desperately tired, unable even to retreat to the safety of his own bed. Chester's words lie slumped over him, heavy with unpalatable truths. He was a terrible partner to Grace in those last few months. He lied, he cheated, he avoided all intimacy; he ripped her out of her family and abandoned her to his work. And now, rather than face facts, he's chasing red herrings. Trying to absolve himself of guilt, of blame. 

"You need protecting from yourself," Chester says, cutting into his thoughts. "I never really saw it before, but Polly's absolutely right."

***

On Friday, Tommy doesn't go into the office; he spends all day in jogging bottoms, raking over Michael's numbers. It's a mind-numbing distraction from the mess inside his head. Chester seems to have the day off and is being bizarrely attentive. He brings tea in a bone china cup and stands behind the sofa, one hand on Tommy's shoulder.

"It's not unusual, you know, for relatives of a suicide to keep looking for answers. To be stuck in disbelief."

The use of _suicide_ as a noun makes something in Tommy wrankle. "She wasn't _a suicide_ , Chester. She was a living, breathing person."

"Perhaps you should think about therapy? To help you come to terms with it?"

"No," Tommy says, staring straight ahead at his screen. "I can live with guilt and I can keep moving forward. I don't need some therapist to tell me how." 

Chester starts kneading Tommy's neck. "We don't have to go tonight, you know. It's been a difficult week."

But the thought of tonight with Solomons is all that got Tommy out of bed at all. He wants to forget. To be hurt. To find the quiet that only comes in the heart of the right kind of pain. "M'fine," he says.

***

When they get to the car park at eight o'clock, Tommy feels like he's on coke — hyper-alert and energised in a tight, immutable way. He hasn't taken so much as a pill since Saturday at the hotel, so it must be anticipation or adrenaline kicking in. He wants to be hurt by that man; he wants it over with; he wants the peace that he felt last time; he doesn't know _what_ he wants. But once they're in that room and it's dark and warm and Solomons says, "strip," something makes Tommy's fingertips twitch; it feels a lot like fury. 

He's still in his jumper and joggers, for which he irrationally blames Chester. Chester appeared in their living room an hour ago looking undeniably _good_ ; dressed in slim black trousers and a dark checked-shirt and smelling of beard oil and mint. Tommy — too keen to show his disregard for this evening — refused to do anything more than brush his teeth. He regrets it now, feeling horribly dishevelled, like he's let himself down. Like he's _not_ himself.

The point is entirely moot once he's naked. There are leather cuffs around his ankles and wrists; the latter tied to ropes that hang from the ceiling so that he's stretched tall, with his feet flat on the ground, facing that goddamn mirror.

Solomons removes his own shirt. "Don't want oil on my clothes," he says, as he drapes it over a chair.

"I'm sure Thomas won't object," Chester quips, "he already has quite the crush."

Tommy would no doubt be angrier if he wasn't so distracted by Solomons's physique. Well-developed muscles show through a softer layer of flesh; the number of tattoos is shocking, each lightly covered by hair that must be every shade of gold. He looks comfortable, powerful, like an ancient god who's lived a little too well and doesn't regret a thing. Tommy's face blazes red.

"Stressful week, Thomas?" Solomons asks. Tommy didn't think he was that transparent, but maybe it's a guess.

"It has been very difficult" Chester says. "I really think if Thomas could let go, properly, he'd find it a relief."

Chester's voice is sugared with sickly concern, but they both know he wants Tommy's tears. Tommy finds it ridiculous — he hasn't cried in front of a man since his father, thirty years ago — since when he's been like a frozen river, ice thickening year on year. Whatever torrent rages beneath the surface, the crystal-white top layer never thaws. If it did that torrent might very well sweep everything away.

Solomons hums deeply and Tommy can't meet his eye, already aroused and terrified and determined not to give in, not to soften so easily beneath this man's hands, not to show Chester he's weak.

He is taken by surprise when warm hands start to stroke his body; Solomons's fingers are everywhere, stroking some sort of oil over Tommy's chest and back, massaging his neck and shoulders. _What the_ _fucking fuck_? 

The hands move gradually lower, massaging Tommy's hips and stomach, squeezing his arse and thighs. The movements are firm but gentle, following every sinew as they coat his skin with oil. Tommy strains against the tenderness, rising on his toes, muscles progressively hardening where they should no doubt be loosening up. Solomons continues, unperturbed, taking his time to oil every contour — from the palms of Tommy's restrained hands to the tight muscles of his calves. It might be a pleasant feeling in another time and place; as it is it feels malicious, a cynical attempt to undermine Tommy's resolve.

He grits his teeth and waits for it to be over, for the real session to begin, but once Solomons reaches his ankles he starts all over again. Working slowly downwards from the tips of Tommy's fingers to the cracks between his toes ... until Tommy is ready to scream his frustration at the ceiling. He's hot, too fucking hot — in his chest, in his throat, behind his eyes. _Jesus, why won't he stop?_

"Easy now," Solomons says, coming to stand behind him. He reaches round to splay his hands across Tommy's chest, as if he were cupping breasts. Tommy's lungs burn like he's run a mile; his ribs expand and contract too rapidly in the cage of Solomons's arms. He feels slippery. Trapped.

And then warm lips kiss the back of his neck and Tommy gasps in panic. "You're a very lucky man, Mr Campbell," Solomons says, before kissing Tommy again.

"Oh, he knows he's _very_ special," Chester agrees, "don't you, Thomas?"

Tommy looks over at Chester, long legs splayed wide on the sofa, like he's owed more than his share of the available space. And maybe he is. He's always had physical presence, Chester, that charm that comes with breeding. Tommy's presence is much harder-won — fought for or stolen from others — and combined, (as Chester has pointed out) with _all the social grace of a doorstop_. 

"Beautiful," Solomons mutters, and Tommy huffs like a bull. He knows he's small and odd-looking, it's why he takes such care with his clothes. 

... _I mean I find you very attractive, Thomas, but you must notice how people stare ..._

The last thing he needs is to be patronised by this beautiful, self-assured man.

"You don't want to hear that, do you?"

"No," Tommy agrees. "I want—"

"Something harder, hmm?"

 _Yes, much harder._ Tommy's absurdly grateful for not being made to say it out loud. 

"Don't worry, you'll get what you want, Treacle." Solomons wraps one hand around Tommy's throat, right over his Adam's apple; the other glides over his hip bone, coming to rest on his balls. "But _first_ you'll get what you need." Solomons squeezes gently, just to the edge of pain, then switches to gentle rolling movements that promise so much more.

Tommy can see his cock curving up towards his stretched stomach, almost begging for touch, but, just like last week, Solomons avoids it. Instead he slides two fingers round and into Tommy's arse, holding him still with a hand laid flat across his middle.

There's no warning, no preamble, just two fingers firmly pressing until they're sunk in to the knuckles. Tommy arches his back against the hot, raw intrusion, unsure of whether last night's roughness was a blessing or a curse. Not that it matters now. Not that he doesn't _like_ it. But it feels wrong, to be touched like this, when he's done nothing to earn it. 

Solomons holds still like that for what feels like an age, holding him hard against his own body. He begins working Tommy slowly, steadily brushing against his prostate with a devilish touch. Tommy shudders and has to close his eyes; he doesn't want Chester to see how easy he is for the embrace and the gentle rhythm bit it isn't long before he's swaying on the edge of orgasm. He wants to be strong. He wants to give in. He wants to obey and defy and disappear ... and then Solomons leaves him hanging, whispering, "back in a minute, Sweetie," as he disappears behind a door.

The room feels empty without him, like the air itself is unbalanced. Tommy flexes his toes against the floor to check it's still there, still level.

"Slut," Chester mumbles into the silence and it feels like a thousand shards of ice have fallen from the ceiling.

It's several minutes before Solomons returns, carrying a loaded tray which he places at Tommy's feet. He kneels on the floor, so close that Tommy can feel hot breath ghost across his dampened arousal. He has to close his eyes as he imagines being enveloped in those warm, full lips; it's all he can manage not to thrust towards them. The fantasy is interrupted by a rhythmic scraping sound — Solomons is sharpening an old-fashioned cut-throat razor on a worn leather strop. He puts the razor down on the tray, alongside a bowl of water and a small towel and squirts foam into his hand. Tommy swallows hard as Solomons rubs it around his balls, massaging it through the thick, dark hair without saying a single word. Trepidation shoots through Tommy like a line of fire from his sternum to his cock. Surely he's not going to ... Tommy can't even finish the thought. It's too humiliating.

"One rule, Thomas," Solomons says, looking up from beneath that ominous brow. "You stay fucking still. Got it?"

"Yes," Tommy whimpers back.

The razor catches an overhead light as Solomons picks it up. "Absolutely still. Understood?"

"Yes," he says again.

Solomons starts high, stroking the blade beneath Tommy's navel in smooth downward strokes. Tommy's eyes flick over to Chester, whose face is an unreadable blank. 

"Eyes on me," Solomons says, noticing his distraction.

Tommy looks down. He is frozen; at once mesmerised by the sight of the Dom on his knees and terrified of the blade that sweeps closer and closer to his cock, leaving a mass of black curls on the white towel, like a slowly growing creature. He thinks of how he will look, truly naked, and a shudder runs through his body. Solomons snatches the blade away, fierce eyes snapping up. He looks cross, disappointed, and a tight little sorry sound escapes Tommy's throat. 

"I won't warn you again," Solomons says.

 _Fuck_ , his gaze burns like fire and Tommy has to look away. He is desperate to please this man in a way he has never experienced, that has nothing to do with the blade. After a statue-still moment, Solomons resumes his task, removing all the hair above Tommy's cock until he's as smooth as a nectarine, then swiping round to the left to repeat the movements there. It's mortifyingly intimate. Tommy's cock is as hard as ice and when Solomons's fingertip catches it he can't help but flinch hard. Solomons hisses angrily and makes a single clucking sound in the back of his throat.

"M'sorry," Tommy whispers, biting his bottom lip, but Solomons puts the blade on the ground and struggles to his feet. The sharpening strop is attached to his belt-loop, hanging almost to his knee. He unfastens the hook from his jeans and it's obvious what's coming. He places the hook in the palm of his hand and winds the leather around it once, leaving a half-foot tail like the end of a heavy belt. He looks at Tommy with eyes that say, _I warned you_ and lays five stripes across his backside so fast Tommy cries out in shock, his feet dancing off the floor. Chester makes a delighted sound from the corner of the room.

Solomons moves round until he is standing directly in front of Tommy and tips his chin up with two fingers so that their eyes are level, only inches apart. His brow is furrowed in disapproval. "I said. Stay. Still." 

Tommy can't respond; the fire across his arse is still spreading, the strikes laid too fast for endorphins to help, and the look in Solomons's eyes is so unreadable it makes him start to tremble. He is utterly unprepared for what comes next, for the mighty lash of leather across the left-hand side of his cock. He gasps and throws his head back; the pain heightening for several seconds after the initial blow; it's unlike anything he's ever felt. When he's just about regained his composure Solomons holds his chin.

"Two more," he says, before stepping aside and unleashing a powerful backhand across the right-hand side of his cock.

" _Fuuck_!" Tommy shouts, so loud he hears Chester tutting. He can't spare his boyfriend a thought, he's too busy processing the pain. His breath is a series of rapid pants that make his chest heave. He's barely sure where he is for a second.

Solomons places one hand flat on his sternum and says, "easy Thomas, easy." His voice is deep and reassuring and he could almost feel soothed, until he remembers there is one more to go.

"Make your tongue wet," Solomons says. 

Tommy can't convert the request to an action; he's bewildered by what is happening, until two fingers press down on his tongue, making him gag. Solomons removes them quickly enough and returns with a bottle of water, forcing Tommy to take several sips. Plenty runs down his chin and chest, but his mouth is no longer dry.

"Tongue out," Solomons orders.

Tommy's ashamed of himself for the way his mouth reluctantly obeys. Where the fuck is this going? His shoulders ache, his cock is on fire and Chester is bloody-well loving this. He feels like a salmon caught on a hook, slippery-pale and stunned. Solomons brings the leather strop to Tommy's mouth,

"Lick it," he instructs. 

It's so fucking humiliating Tommy doesn't immediately comply. "I'm not a dog," he says.

"You'll lick it until it's nice and wet or there'll be another three." _Oh fuck_. He closes his eyes as he runs his tongue along the leather. "Wetter," Solomons instructs. Tommy has to swallow and move his head from left to right to cover the length of leather in front of his face. 

"You don't like this, Thomas?"

He glares.

"Your cock says otherwise." Solomons looks down at the erection betraying Tommy's desire. He steps backwards and taps the leather under the head of Tommy's cock. _Thwack_. The final, perfectly-aimed lash is delivered from below, making contact with the entire length of shaft from the base to the tender head.

Tommy screams.

The rest of the shaving is completed in silence — with Tommy as still as a statue. Solomons attaches one ankle-cuff to a length of rope and suspends Tommy's leg from the ceiling, leaving him painfully exposed. Then he blindfolds him, "to help you focus."

Tommy is utterly mortified by the intimacy of the operation, by the foam as it's massaged into every crevice, by the feel of Solomons's breath on his newly naked skin. When he's finished Solomons releases his leg and tells him how good he looks, massaging something slick and cool into his freshly shaved skin. It feels amazing, the swipe of wetness across his bare arse and balls, the fingers exploring and gradually pulling at him, jerking him slowly until he's arching into it. His cock is sore from the lashes, but the touch is gentle and the contrast is fucking delicious. It's not long before Tommy is on the brink of climax and the fingers slow right down.

He's brought to the edge twice more, until it's as if every feeling he's ever had is clawing at him for release: shame, fear, excitement, guilt; others he can't even name. He's making those pathetic sounds that only escape in this room, whines and whimpers that tear at his ego but he's powerless to withhold.

And then Solomons moves away once more, leaving Tommy floundering. It's achingly quiet without him. The air feels suddenly cool. Then he feels hands on his ankles and something so soft it makes him flinch. Solomons lifts his left foot and slips something up his leg. Then his right. Some sort of garment is pulled slowly up his thighs; snapping into place high around his waist. The fabric is cool as water as it flutters over his newly-bare skin. Solomons hums behind him, a satisfied sound that Tommy wants to hear again.

"Look at yourself," he says, untying the blindfold. Tommy does. He is wearing a pair of french knickers; the delicate fabric is palest pink, almost as pale as his skin. They look expensive, the silk so sheer that the absence of dark pubic hair is alarmingly obvious. He looks ... innocent ... obscene. Solomons stands behind him and slides a hand inside the loose fabric to show Tommy his own cock, everything bare and pale aside from the livid red marks from the leather. "Perfect," he murmurs, and Tommy's chest burns with fire. 

Hands run up and down Tommy's sides, smooth up the backs of his thighs; the silk sliding like a promise over the strap marks on his arse. The movements are so slow and reverent that Tommy starts to tremble.

He doesn't know why, this doesn't hurt, he isn't even aroused anymore. But Solomons keeps stoking him, rubbing circles over his skin. Something about the movements reminds Tommy of being a child, of being wrapped in a towel after bathtime and cradled on his mother's lap. He has to close his eyes.

"You want me to hurt you?" Solomons whispers so quietly Tommy wonders if he's dreamt it. 

"Yes," he answers in a voice that makes him sound four years old. 

"Very pretty," Chester says, startling Tommy's eyes back open. He stands to one side with his arms folded across his chest. "Be prettier still with a few more welts, don't you think, Thomas?"

"Yes," Tommy answers quickly, because it's true, that's what he needs. The softness is unfamiliar and terrifying and making him feel strange. 

"Please," he adds, when Solomons looks between them, hesitating. He seems to make his mind up after some internal deliberation.

Tommy feels the familiar curdling in his stomach as Solomons takes the strop from his belt once more. He doesn't think he could take any more to his cock, so the first harsh bite to his thigh comes as a relief. It's short-lived, because twenty or thirty blows reign down so fast that he loses his ability to think. To breath properly. It's not as hard as the paddling but it makes him pant nonetheless, a harsh noise on every exhale that gives away more than he'd wish to. His head is spinning and his vision blurs. He hangs his head to compose himself, sagging from the ropes, arms burning as much as his arse.

When it stops, Campbell is standing in front of him. "Much better," he says, as he brushes one hand across Tommy's right cheek. "Lovely as all of this is, let's not forget why we're here." 

Solomons runs a hand down Tommy's left side. "It takes more than brute force and brutality to get through to someone like Thomas. Trust me, Mr Campbell, I know what I'm doing."

"I'm sure you do," Chester says, "if you know what you're really dealing with."

Tommy wills his mind to zone back in, unsure of Chester's ploy. 

"Because, sadly, someone here has been keeping a little secret." Chester produces a Tramadol bottle from his pocket and rattles it under Tommy's nose. "You made Mr Solomons a promise, so why do you still have these?"

"Is this true, Thomas?" Solomons asks. He stands in front of Tommy with his eyes as black as coal. "Think very carefully before you answer, because I am a man of my word." 

Tommy stands on a precipice, torn between insanity and need. What use is an argument now, when nothing that matters will change? 

"Yes," he answers clearly, glaring at Chester's eyes.

"Well then," Solomons says, reaching up to uncuff Tommy's wrists. "I think we agreed what the punishment was."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Were there too many fish analogies in this chapter? Absolutely. Sorry this update took a while. And got so long ... I'm not entirely happy with it but at the risk of spending another 2 weeks editing it, here it is.


	7. Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie looks long and hard at those pale blue eyes as he undoes the leather wrist cuffs. And what he sees, yeah, aside from the obvious anger — and the less obvious (but far more appropriate) fear — is conviction.
> 
> Thomas wants this to happen.
> 
> Or at least he thinks he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follows on *immediately* from Chapter 6.

Alfie looks long and hard at those pale blue eyes as he undoes the leather wrist cuffs. And what he sees, yeah, aside from the obvious anger — and the less obvious (but far more appropriate) fear — is _conviction_.

Thomas wants this to happen.

Or at least he _thinks_ he does.

Which goes to show how off his game Alfie has been. Too gentle. Maybe he's going soft. Because if Thomas thinks he's gonna enjoy a single moment of this then he is gonna be very very sorry, very very soon.

Which brings Alfie face to face with another disconcerting fact, right. The fact that he is _disappointed._ Not pissed off, not turned on, and certainly not _sorry_ (Thomas had fair warning, didn't he?) but genuinely disappointed. Because what they do in this room, it's not about pain. Not really. It's about trust. He _trusted_ Thomas not to take those pills. And Thomas broke that trust.

Alfie's never doubted his ability to bring Thomas to tears — not since that very first meeting when Thomas walked in thrumming with the sort of quiet desperation that makes men reckless, a danger to themselves — but he had sincerely hoped to do it in less brutal fashion. 

Still, Thomas's features have settled from fear to resignation in lightening-quick time and he's made no attempt to deny his boyfriend's accusation, so, Alfie figures, the stage is set.

He takes his time setting the scene. Laying towels over the table; fetching pillows from the adjoining room; taking three rattan canes from the bucket of saltwater he keeps in the corner (one quarter inch, one half inch and one much shorter, swishier number that looks innocent but is anything but). Thomas shuffles on his feet, pale as a china doll still dressed in sheer pink silk.

"Take 'em off," Alfie says, gesturing at the lingerie. A part of him would dearly like to leave 'em on, make Thomas take his punishment through the silk. There's a certain school-girl appeal to the aesthetic, but it'd be a waste of fifty quid and two hours of his life spent choosing the right pair (sentimental flight of fancy that it was). "Blood don't come out of silk too well," he says, when Thomas hasn't moved. 

Campbell stands by the mirror, arms folded, like some sort of gaoler watching the scene unfold. "The bottle please," Alfie gestures. Campbell hands it over with a rather self-satisfied grin and Alfie hands it straight to Thomas. "I'd like you to count them out," he says. "You can empty them onto the table."

He watches Thomas grip the bottle as if he's trying to crush it.

"Come on, you heard the man," Campbell says, reaching out to touch his boyfriend's arm, only for Thomas to viciously swat him away. 

Not for the first time, Alfie is struck by the sharpness of the energy between them. He looks away, wary of reading too much into it; he's made that mistake before, hasn't he? Seeing what he wants to see. No reason this pair shouldn't be together, after all. Campbell is tall, charming, good-looking in that well-aged sort of way. It's a shame his technique, is so fuckin' inept, but he has an undeniable authority that rises up to meet Thomas's clever, rebellious eyes. Probably just needs some guidance, needs to learn that strength and tenderness ain't mutually exclusive. It's a common enough mistake in an inexperienced Dom.

Thomas kicks off the silk as he walks towards the table, then empties the pills as instructed.

"That's it," Alfie says. "Now count 'em carefully."

Tommy glances up, like he's genuinely affronted. "Thirty-six," he says, without seemingly having counted at all.

"You sure about that?" Alfie asks. "Don't want any mistakes."

Thomas's eyes scoot over the scattered pills before he repeats his answer.

"Okay," Alfie says. "And how many were there to start with?"

"A hundred," Thomas answers.

Alfie sucks air over his teeth and winces. "Sixty-four it is then. That's gonna smart." He has no intention of delivering all of those strokes at full pelt — he's not a maniac — but the panic that flutters across Thomas's face is beautiful to see. "Pop them back in the bottle then, there's a good boy."

There's a brief moment when Alfie thinks Thomas might actually balk. But he kneels on the table, exactly as instructed, bends down when he's asked to, so his arse is raised high in the air. Reaches between his knees so that Alfie can secure each leather wrist-cuff to the inside of each ankle-cuff. It's a strenuous pose: arms stretched out; shoulders flattened, cheekbone pressed into the table.

"Spread your legs," Alfie says, stuffing a pillow beneath each knee. Thomas shuffles awkwardly, his movement severely restricted. He looks furious. Glorious. Red-faced and sweat-slicked. "Keep your knees wide, like that," Alfie says, "'less you wanna fall off the table." He reaches for a packet of antiseptic wipes and sweeps one over the taut curves of Thomas's strop-marked arse. 

"You're lucky you've had a warm-up," he says as goosebumps prickle the skin.

And then he stands back. Away. Taking in the view. Enjoying the anticipation as much for himself as for Thomas.

Perhaps this is too humiliating — being trussed up and made to wait. Thomas certainly looks like he's boiling with rage and shame. But perhaps this is what he needs, why he's brought it on himself. Alfie turns to the wall to dim the lights even further, leaving Thomas to look angrily at his reflection in the mirror. When he steps back, Campbell is whispering in his boyfriend's ear; whatever he's saying makes those blue eyes harden until they look like they could cut glass.

"Stand back please, Mr Campbell," Alfie says, smoothing his own hand over Thomas's face. He's no idea what's been said but he wants to wipe it away.

He lines up the cane and taps it several times; the air in the room crackles as he slowly takes his aim. The shuddering shock of the first strike is always a special thrill, it's important not to rush it, to get it just right. He rolls his shoulders and runs the rattan gently from side to side, before landing the first stripe heavily across the centre of Thomas's arse.

There's a delay between the impact and the searing stripe of heat. Alfie watches it sink in: the slow-motion curl of Thomas's hips that signals the pain has arrived and is radiating beyond that thin red line to engage his whole body. Soon his brain will respond, will pump out its chemical dampeners, but Alfie lays the next stroke, hard, before the endorphins have a chance to kick in. It's brutal, no doubt about it, but he may as well set the tone. Let Thomas know that what he's in for ain't no fucking picnic.

The third strike is usually Alfie's favourite — the point at which the recipient wakes up to the dreadful cruelty in store — the pain hasn't overwhelmed them yet, but any fantasy of stoicism has started to fall apart. He shuffles on his feet and uses two hands on the cane. True to previous experience, the third strike splits the air and leaves Thomas gasping in shock. He's lost control of his breathing and that'll never fucking do.

"Breathe even, Thomas," Alfie says, leaning down close to his ear. "You lose control already and you'll make it ten times harder." 

Thomas makes a high vocal sound that Alfie takes for understanding. He waits a good ninety seconds before continuing, watching closely as three firm welts rise up on his lovely skin. He lays the next seven strokes like tram rails beneath the first, covering Thomas from the centre of his arse down to the crease at the top of his thighs. The poor boy has clearly listened; he forces his breath out in long, shaky exhales in the gaps between the strikes. 

"Ten," Alfie says. "That's good, you're doing well."

Thomas has marked up beautifully; every welt a livid red topped with a rope of white. Alfie puts down the cane. 

"I'll be using a lighter cane for the next set," he says, "you keep breathing, Thomas. Just like you did back then."

"Is a change really necessary?" Campbell asks, "I mean, when he's done so well with the first set."

Alfie turns to look at him and wonders how Thomas has ended up with someone so utterly incompetent. 

"Your boyfriend's arse — as you can very well see — is already covered in welts. The rest of the strokes will feel twice as hard, whichever cane I use."

Campbell thins his lips and seems satisfied with the answer. "Just as well you like to feel it, eh, Thomas?" 

"Just as well indeed," Alfie says. "Step aside, Mr Campbell."

Alfie lays the next ten strokes much faster than the first. He's kept Thomas waiting long enough and he knows the fight's coming next — and boy, does Thomas fight. He tugs at the restraints with every swipe, twisting and struggling like a buck rabbit with his foot caught in a trap. He growls behind closed lips — an angry, affronted sound — as his fists clench and unclench and his body starts to shudder. Even the boyfriend looks shocked.

"Adrenaline," Alfie says when he pauses for a rest (he can feel it coursing in his own veins as he watches Thomas heave). "Body's natural reaction is to want to run away. Futile of course. He can't. He's no choice but to take it."

He walks to the head of the table and runs his hand through Thomas's hair. "Shhh," he says, "take a rest. You can do this Thomas."

Thomas musters a furious glare that buries any impulse Alfie had to soothe beneath the dominant part of his brain. The cane is his shucking knife; he wants to prise Thomas open, run his fingers over everything inside: heart and stomach and guts — that which is slick and shining and that which is filled with grit. He doesn't care, he'll take it all and squeeze it till the pain is so unbearable it becomes its own relief. Till it softens into pleasure. Till he can fold Thomas back together with that pearl trapped deep inside. 

"You wanna safeword?" he asks, thumbing over Thomas's cheek. His body's calmed down somewhat but he's far from calm inside. There's fire in his eyes that needs to rage and burn. "Nah, you knew the deal didn't ya? And you broke the rules anyway."

Alfie returns to position. "A word of advice though, Thomas. The longer you spend in fight mode, the harder it's gonna be. Try to relax."

Thomas, disappointingly, fights through the next ten too. Not that Alfie can blame 'im; he lays the strokes on hard (it is a punishment after all). The bruising already looks brutal, like a deep crimson butterfly trapped beneath a cage of white lines. "Thirty," Alfie says as he palms over the welts. 

Campbell looks utterly mesmerised, standing off to one side. His hand moves inside his trousers as he watches Thomas pant.

Alfie spaces the next stokes out sporadically, making it impossible for Thomas to anticipate, to brace or clench in time. He lays two strokes in quick succession then waits two minutes before the next. Thomas's legs start trembling, the fight finally giving way; by the time stroke thirty-seven lands, he's shaking pretty hard. His eyes, when Alfie pulls up the lids, are a thousand miles away; he's so fucking close to subspace, if he'd only let himself tip in. He won't, he's clinging on. Holding back. Waiting to be pushed. Alfie feels the responsibility like a physical sensation: a quickening of his heart-rate and a lead-weight in his arm. He's too aware of everything; the sound of Thomas breathing and the sheen of sweat on his back; the strength with which he must land the next blows to shove Thomas off the edge.

He can almost see the energy as it flows from his own body down the length of the rattan cane — like a monstrous gift — eliciting a shocked yelp that echoes off the walls. "That's it, let your anger out, Thomas, no need to hold it in."

And Thomas doesn't. The next strike draws a long, deep sound like the howl of a wounded animal; it's so beautiful to Alfie's ears he can feel it in his chest. By the time he delivers the last blow Thomas is slack with compliance, absorbing the vicious impact with a whimpering resignation. Alfie puts the cane on the table and leans down by Thomas's head.

"There you go, Beautiful," he says, taking Thomas's face in both hands. "You can ride the crest of the wave, now, Sweetheart. Twenty-four to go."

 _Fuck_ he wants to kiss him; he bites his tongue instead. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ to let himself feel like this. He closes his eyes and composes himself and takes a long deep breath.

"The last twenty-four will be placed vertically," he says, more to Campbell than Thomas. He's not sure if Thomas is listening now, which is probably for the best. Alfie can admit that this punishment is particularly savage — dreamt up, as it was, on the spur of the moment, at the end of that first session, — when he'd had a glimpse of how beautifully Thomas responded to impact, how much he seemed to want and need the fire and the fight. Might have got a bit carried away, mighten he? Still, he ain't one to admit to his own mistakes and certainly not to back down. Not with Thomas glassy-eyed and bloodied and lying on his table.

Alfie takes the smallest cane in his right hand, and pulls the tip back with his left. It's narrow and light and about the length of a ruler, and when he lets go of the tip it snaps down straight over Thomas's hole. He bucks hard and whimpers.

Campbell looks shocked as Alfie lays another four stripes, resulting in four overlapping red lines down the crease of Thomas's arse. 

Alfie pauses and licks his thumb, before rubbing it over the ring of muscle. "Bear down please, Thomas," he says, surprising even himself. And Thomas tries, bless 'im, muscle fluttering pathetically in a futile attempt to obey. Alfie whips him hard for his failure — once, twice, thrice — and Thomas makes a ferocious wet sound that's so fucking close to tears Alfie can almost taste them.

"Do as you're told please, Thomas," Alfie says, sounding more harsh than he feels. 

"You fucking bastards," Thomas whispers, and Alfie wishes with all his might that Campbell weren't in the room. That he weren't standing, looking delighted, waiting to play his part. 

He wants Thomas on his back. It's suddenly imperative, he wants to see that extraordinary face, wants to shush him when he breaks. He stops and unties the restraints and turns Thomas over — Thomas who's stiff and slippery and too resigned to complain.

"Give us a hand," he says to Campbell, who isn't nearly gentle enough, manhandling his boyfriend as if he wasn't already sore. "Be more fuckin' careful," he grunts when Thomas hisses in pain. 

Alfie links the wrist cuffs together at the front of Thomas's chest, then fetches a spreader bar to attach between his ankles. 

"Stand by his head please, Mr Campbell. And hold on to this bar." 

Campbell looks far too delighted, reaching over to pull the spreaker-bar, and hence Thomas's legs, towards the head of the table. Alfie stands at the other end, with Thomas bent in two, spread before him like an intimate sacrifice. All the movement has dragged him out of the depths of subspace; he's coming back to himself. Alfie needs to knock him back down quickly if he's going to survive the rest. He runs his fingers over each bruised cheek and then slaps them with an open palm until Thomas's breathing deepens, until his head stops straining upwards and lolls to one side in defeat.

"Sixteen, Thomas," Campbell says. "And you know what happens after that." 

Alfie can't think of anything worse than letting this bastard fuck Thomas, (which is jealous and irrational, given he dreamt it up himself). He just needs to get it done. 

"You're doing so fuckin' well," he says, as he strokes over Thomas's stomach. He's hot and tight and slick with oil but he doesn't flinch this time. Which is good, Alfie tells himself, the endorphins must be making him drift. Alfie lines the cane up and lays three more vertical strikes. Thomas inhales sharply, mouth open as if to scream. But the scream never comes, he stays completely silent, pressing his hands flat over his face and curling up off the towel. Alfie lays another three, hitting the swollen ring of muscle dead-on every time. Thomas is so tense, so quiet that it takes a moment to realise his shoulders have started to shake.

Alfie is thrumming with power, with a level of arousal that reaches far beyond the sexual. He's enthralled, bewitched, watching Thomas on another brink. "Let go," he whispers before he runs his hand up the back of one pale thigh — he squeezes firmly, by way of apology for what he's about to do, then lays the last ten strikes so hard he must seem immune to mercy. Thomas cries out with every impact, bucking so hard that Campbell lets go of the bar. Alfie grabs it from him as he lays the last three, looking back up just in time to see Campbell doubling over and coming inside his trousers. He watches as Campbell stumbles backwards — without a second glance at Thomas, whose silent shakes have broken into equally silent sobs. And _fuck_ , he looks even more perfect as he curls in on himself.

"S'alright," Alfie says, leaning over the table. Thomas rolls so far onto his side he crashes into Alfie, who catches him by the shoulders and holds him against his stomach. It's awkward, Thomas's legs are poised somewhere in mid-air, held wide by the spreader bar as Alfie rubs his back. After a little while the shuddering slows down and Alfie rolls him gently so he's, once more, facing the ceiling. He wants to wipe away the tears, to see into those pools of black, but the heels of Thomas's hands are clamped down firmly over his eye. He's lost in his own little world, and Alfie is happy to leave him there, content to thumb away the tears that escape towards his jaw. He wipes over Thomas's lower lip — as soft and plump as a date — and pushes two fingers into his mouth, which drops open as if by reflex. Thomas makes a desperate sound, which sounds so much like a plea that Alfie buries all four fingers deep in that hot, red mouth. He gags at the fullness, and yet strains his neck for more, rocking his head from side to side like a newborn searching for milk. Alfie is hypnotised; goosebumps prickle his skin.

"Very good, Mr Solomons," Campbell says over his shoulder. "I'm afraid I may be unable to complete my part of the deal."

Alfie can barely bring himself to look away from the table, to look at the fucker who shot his load when Thomas was in most pain.

"He's all yours Mr Solomons. If you want to finish the job."

"You want me to fuck him _for_ you?" Alfie asks. He's incredulous, barely able to think of anything beyond the soft, wet lapping at the rough pads of his fingers. He honestly doesn't remember ever wanting anything more. He'd like to fuck Thomas so slowly, so gently, that he'd turn to fuckin' _liquid_ and drip right off the table.

"I want him to get what he deserves," Campbell says in reply.

Alfie pulls his fingers from Thomas's mouth and runs them down the mess of oil and sweat that coats his chest. "No," Alfie says firmly, before he can change his mind.

"You remember your safeword, Thomas?" Campbell asks. "Do you want to use it, pet?" 

Thomas seems to shake his head, but it's very hard to tell; his eyes, at last uncovered, are wide and black and wet, reflecting the dimmed ceiling-spotlights like snow swirling in a globe.

"January," Alfie says, and Campbell actually scoffs.

"Surely _Thomas_ has to say it. If he wants to stop the scene."

" _January_ ," Alfie repeats. "He's too far gone to know." _Look at him, you imbecile._

Campbell steps back from the table with his hands raised in the air. "You're in charge, Mr Solomons."

"Yeah, I am, aren't I?"

For someone who's got what he wanted — his boyfriend brought to tears — Campbell looks strangely detached as he pats Thomas on the shoulder.

"Is there somewhere I can clean up?" he asks.

"Washroom's through the bedroom," Alfie says, glad to see him leave.

He undoes the spreader-bar and crouches next to Thomas, who once again is rolling, trying to curl into a ball. "You want to come, Thomas?" he asks, and it feels immediately wrong, like he's reducing something important to the lowest common denominator. And yet they have no other form of communication; this is all there is. Pain. Pleasure. Trust. "You were so fuckin' good for me, Thomas. Let me make it good for you."

Thomas doesn't respond, his eyes drop back to the wall. Alfie moves his hand down to rest over his naked cock. It's soft and warm and the gesture feels absurdly innocent — like putting down a saucer of cream to tempt a stray kitten. "Thomas," Alfie whispers, and hopes he hears the question. He gives himself to the count of ten before he steps away. 

"It's Tommy," Thomas says, when Alfie's about to move.

"Tommy," Alfie repeats, and it sits well on his tongue.

Thomas, _Tommy_ , finally looks, dragging his eyes down to Alfie's as if they were suitcases full of sand. And there, in the space of a heartbeat, there's a moment of understanding, an honesty so striking it catches in Alfie's chest. He gets to his feet and leans down and kisses Tommy's mouth; his other hand starts working as if of its own accord. And then they're moving, together, the kitten starts to lap. Warily at first, and then greedily — wet moans and tilting hips — like he wants more. Like he wants harder. Despite everything he's been through. Alfie slides his fingers over the smooth oiled skin and presses at the puffed swell of Tommy's beaten hole; it gives around his finger, like the tenderest cut of veal, and floods Alfie with compassion so overwhelming he wants to carry Tommy from this table; lick him clean and wrap him up and and rock him till he sleeps.

Beneath him Tommy's face is wet, he's panting little sobs and Alfie needs to focus on the precious task in hand. He starts mumbling in time with his hands, soothing nonsense words, "that's it, Thomas ... beautiful ... you've earned this ... let it go." Tommy stutters gently and shivers to a climax, his sweet-spot as soft under Alfie's finger as his tongue was minutes ago. 

There's a strange atmosphere afterwards, as Tommy comes back to himself. They're half-way to the bedroom when Campbell comes through the door.

"Here, let me help you," he says, coming to Tommy's side. He slides his arm around his boyfriend's middle, displacing Alfie's own. "Lie down, I'll fetch your clothes, love," he says when Tommy's laid on his side on the bed.

Alfie busies himself fetching water and chocolate, arnica tablets and antiseptic cream. When he turns back round, Campbell is laying behind Tommy, running fingers through his hair. It's the most he's seen him dote on his partner and he knows he should be glad. He puts the tray down next to them and hangs back, unwilling to intervene; Tommy is clearly exhausted and Campbell has all that he needs. He's a total fucking idiot to begrudge this after-care, so he wanders out to the main room and commences clearing up.

It must be fifteen minutes later when the pair of them appear. Tommy — dressed in his jumper and tracksuit bottoms — has the look of a child, ready for bed, who's been brought down to say _goodnight_. Alfie had forgotten the incongruous choice of clothing, which suddenly feels like a detail he shouldn't have overlooked.

"S'no rush, take as long as you like," he says feebly groping for time.

"Thank you, Mr Solomons, but we've more than exceeded our allocation. You've lived up to your reputation. Ably, I might add."

Alfie grunts in response. "Will there be a next time?" he can't help himself but ask. The realisation is dawning that Campbell has got what he came for. Tears.

"Let's see," is the non-committal response he'll have to live with for now.

"Take the arnica, Tommy. And for fuck's sake take it easy this weekend."

"I'll see to it that _Thomas_ here, gets everything he needs."

Alfie is desperate for one last moment of honesty, an exchange of eye-contact at least, but when Tommy finally glances up the snow in his eyes has settled into an impenetrable frost.

***

Alfie lays awake all night, tortured by the evening's events. He keeps replaying it in his head; how taut Tommy was as he was massaged and oiled; how much braver he was with the pain. How he lay on the table afterwards like a loosely uncurled fist.

He can still feel how soft Tommy was inside, the heat of him glows like phantom embers in Alfie's fingertips. But this way lies madness and disappointment.

He drags himself out of bed when it's barely six am and runs for miles along the canal, until all there is is cold wind and loud music and the burn of his over-worked lungs. He feels better by the time he gets back. Head clear for a while at least. Until his phone pings to remind him that he's due to meet his mum for afternoon tea at a swanky hotel in town.

 _Shit_.

He booked it weeks ago, there's no way he can cancel. Not that he doesn't _like_ meeting his mum, he does, but she's the sharpest person he knows and has the dubious skill of being able to see through him as if he's made of glass. Comes from being an only child to a single parent, and growing up with nothing. They've always been ' _unnaturally close_ ' as certain people used to put it. 

"You look tired, darling," she says when he turns up at the appointed hour. "Lovely, of course, but tired." She's waiting under the awning at the front entrance of the hotel, looking like a rather small and brightly-dressed accomplice to the doorman. _I've spent my life wearing grey, darling, now's the time for colour._

"Mum, you could 'ave waited inside, in the warm," he says. 

"Where's the fun in that? I learn far more by spying on you before you know I'm here." He starts to grumble in response but she grips him firmly by both upper arms and kisses him on each cheek. "Now, darling. Be a gentleman," she says, proffering her elbow.

The lounge where tea is served is an over-plumped affair; stuffed with velvet cushions and enormous chandeliers. It's not to Alfie's personal taste but he knows for a fact that the pastry chef, Marcel, is a bona fide genius. (A vicious little queen an'all, but that's the price you pay for talent). He orders the afternoon tea for two.

"So, how's the flat mum?"

"Fine," she says.

Late last year he finally persuaded her to move out of the highrise he grew up in and into a brand new flat overlooking Battersea Park.

"It's perfect, darling," she adds, as if sensing his disappointment. "No maintenance. I can walk right into town. It's everything you said it'd be." There's a barb in there somewhere, but Alfie chooses to ignore it. "It would be even lovelier if I saw a little more of you."

"Business don't run itself, mum."

"You work too much," she says.

"Four words you never thought you'd say," he chuckles, but deep down he still feels a deep sense of shame. He put his mum through hell in his formative years — dropping out of school whilst she worked three jobs to keep him fed and clothed. He got involved in too many murky schemes with too many murky people and had been inside twice already by the time he was twenty-two. 

"That was a long time ago," she says, patting the back of his hand.

The food, when it arrives, is intricately impressive — dozens of dainty cakes and sandwiches arranged over four tiers of a silver cake stand, served with a pot of tea in the finest china and a bottle of champagne. His mother starts on the tiny, crustless cucumber sandwiches and they chat about some distant Aunt and the price of coffee and the British royal family who, for reasons opaque to Alfie, his mother seems to love. 

They're on their second pot of Earl Grey when she catches him off guard (and really, you'd think he'd have learnt her tricks by now). 

"Come on then. Who is he?"

Alfie puts down his cup and sighs. "Who is who, Mum?"

"The man who's put you off your food."

"I told you, I'm done with men."

She clicks her tongue in that familiar way that means she's having none of it. "Well there's only one thing that's ever troubled your appetite."

"It's no one."

"And does no one have a name?"

Alfie rubs his beard and looks out the window. He knows before he shapes the word that he'll probably regret it. "Thomas," he says quietly, "Tommy." He feels a sudden ridiculous thrill at saying it outside that room; like some love-sick adolescent who yearns to talk about their crush. 

His mum sits back and wipes a finger at the corner of her mouth, as if her bright red lipstick wasn't perfect already. She doesn't speak. (It's her greatest weapon).

"It's nothing," Alfie says, and takes a macaroon from the display, putting the whole thing in his mouth as if to prove a point.

"That smile isn't nothing," his mother says. "So what's the problem?"

"Everything. I barely know him, he has a partner, he's so ... restless? So ... I don't know. It doesn't matter. It ain't gonna happen."

"Does he make you happy?"

" _Happy_?" Alfie asks. It seems such a strange question.

" _Solnyshko_ ," his mother says sadly. _Little sun_. "You live your life like a Tolstoy novel — every emotion at once. Love, ambition, passion, betrayal, envy..."

"Mum—"

"Shhht!" she shushes. "You should look for _happiness."_

"This one ain't happy, mum," he says, as if he knows that for a fact. 

"Then leave well alone. Find someone you don't need to save, not another Alessandro."

"Mum! For fuck's sake..." he sighs and rubs a hand down his face.

"What? I can't look out for my boy?"

"I'm not a boy, I'm forty-two."

"Old enough to learn from your mistakes."

"I have, Mum. Like I said, nothing's gonna happen. Forget I said it." 

They sit in silence for a while and let the air settle. 

"Anyway," he says, steering the conversation back onto safer ground. "I'm catering an event for the Royals next week. Well, not the royals exactly, but the Prince's Trust. You know, the charity."

"Oh," she says. "Who'll be there? Prince Charles? Camilla?"

"Nah. One of the Queen's grandkids. The one that was into show-jumping."

"Zara?"

"That's the one. It's being sponsored by some philanthropist who's seriously into horses."

"Anyone I've heard of?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'm just one of the plebs mum, contracted by the events company. But it's an enormous venue out by Docklands. Canapés and dinner for nearly eight-hundred. It's a proper big gig."

He talks about the menus and the scale of the logistics, about how many waiting staff he's had to hire (and subsequently fire for their ineptitude). His mother listens attentively but is far more interested by the list of celebrities and politicians going. Seems she's become quite the gossip-column addict since she retired. It turns out the compere is some presenter she likes from a weekday TV show. She hazards several guesses at the identity of the well-known singer who's still under-wraps, and dismisses the scheduled boy-band as highly over-rated. Her knowledge of popular culture never ceases to alarm Alfie, who spends so much of his life working unsociable hours in kitchens (and dungeons) that it mostly passes him by. He's heard of a couple of the footballers who'll be presenting awards and prizes but otherwise he really couldn't give less of a shit. He just wants it to go well.

"Are you running all of this with your project boys?" she asks dubiously.

"They're not projects mum. They're employees."

"Apprentices," she corrects.

"Those _apprentices_ are the reason I got this gig. And besides, Nathan's permanent now. And Liam." Alfie's been training up young lads leaving prison for the past ten years. It hasn't always worked out of course, but the successes outweigh the duds. He knows from personal experience how difficult it is to get honest work with a police record. (Not that he's always been honest himself — ain't entirely honest now — but he's at peace with his own hypocrisy). He counts himself as lucky. To have discovered his passion for food and had the wherewithal to set out on his own. 

"I'm proud of you," his mum says as he sees her into a cab.

***

He doesn't sleep much better that night, his mum's words ringing in his ears. He hates the way she brought up Alessandro, how he can't avoid the comparison. Tommy's on painkillers, not crack cocaine, but the doubt is lodged deep in his stomach. It's impossible to erase the full horror of addiction, of watching someone you care for turn into a monster. Of supporting them through countless rehabs and relapses, blinded by hope and love; of thinking you've finally made it through and then having that thrown in your face.

It's five years since Alessandro left (with Alfie's best friend) to start a new life in Barcelona. Five years since Alfie's had a significant other, and nearly as long since he set up the Dom sideline.

It was never meant to be a business. It started off as an outlet, an alternative to unsatisfactory tinder hook-ups or crass bondage clubs. It's a way to satisfy his craving for a particular type of connection. It's not the power he craves so much as the intimacy it brings. A superficial fuck don't tell you much about a person (whether they're a moaner or a screamer. Whether they like it hard or gentle, maybe. But beyond that, nothing honest). Tying someone from the ceiling on the other hand, edging them till they beg, whipping them till they scream, having them trust you to push their limits and keep them safe, now _that_ tells you who's real. Who's worth the effort.

Which brings him back to Tommy like a fucking kick in the balls. To how peaceful he looked in that brief moment of connection.

He wonders what they're doing today. Thomas and his boyfriend. Whether they're curled up under a blanket watching sitcoms or some such shit. He certainly fuckin' hopes so. He picks up his phone and thinks about messaging Campbell, pointing him in the right direction, checking the aftercare. He messages Thomas instead. Quickly. Without thinking too much:

 _Day two's often worse than day one. Take care of yourself. Rest. Do something you enjoy_.

The message that comes back ten minutes later makes Alfie snort his tea all over the bloody sofa:

_I enjoy horseriding._

What the fuck should he make of that? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait, did Tommy make Alfie laugh?


	8. Gala

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campbell and Thomas are ready, have been for three or four minutes. And now, now of all fucking times, Alfie feels apprehensive. Like he hasn't prepared enough. Like he hasn’t spent forty-five minutes loosening Tommy up, flogging his stomach and back till he made those soft little grunting sounds and finally began to relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end for notes and warnings

It was madness to agree to this the night before such a big event. Then again, jealousy is a form of madness, and Alfie's not above admitting that's what this is. 

The initial elation of Tommy's text response was diluted when he'd ignored the follow-up messages until, by Wednesday, Alfie'd all but convinced himself he'd never see 'im again. Why the fuck would Campbell bring Tommy back now that he'd got what he wanted? Alfie sure as hell wouldn't in his shoes.

But he ain't in Campbell's shoes, is he? Which is the crux of the entire fuckin' issue. Alfie, right, is the hired Dom, the plaything brought in to spice up the real-life relationship between two real-life people who share a real-life home and real-life friends and holidays and arguments and ambitions and fuck knows what else ... whatever it is that normal people share. S'been so long Alfie's half-forgotten.

So yeah, when Campbell called with his late-night proposal, it felt like an ultimatum. And Alfie, against all his better judgement, well he fucking jumped, didn’t he?

"No problem if you're not interested, Mr. Solomons. I have someone else lined up."

"Didn't say I weren't interested. Just tomorrow night is difficult."

"What's _difficult_ , Mr. Solomons, is getting Thomas to open up. To admit to his own desires. The fact that he's done so at all is largely down to you. I think it's safe to assume he would prefer it if _you_ were the third party in this arrangement. But it does have to be tomorrow."

Alfie knew he was probably falling for a line, just like he knew he weren't gonna decline the offer — gala dinner or no bloody gala dinner. The thought of Campbell dragging Tommy off to do this with some unprofessional twat made his skin itch. At least if he was involved, he could make sure it was good. It was done right. And if he happened to enjoy the process himself? Well, he’s a lot of things, but selfless ain’t one.

So here they are, Friday night, back in the underground room; Campbell stretched out in the reclined armchair with Tommy straddling his lap. Alfie feels strangely detached, watching them like this. Wonders how often they fuck, who usually goes on top. Does Campbell worship Tommy's body the way he knows _he_ would? 

The relationship might look inadequate from where Alfie's standing, but that don't make it wrong. A _shame_ , undoubtedly, that someone as beautifully, reluctantly vulnerable as Tommy is stuck with someone who don't seem to understand his potential. But they came to him as a pair, didn't they? Came looking for someone to enhance their relationship, not to fuck it up. So Alfie needs to stick to the job in hand and stop searching for an excuse to rescue someone he barely even knows. 

That’s the danger with doing what they do in this room — it’s so intimate, connections form quickly, deeply. People put themselves in Alfie's hands and he peels back the layers. The tools might look cruel to some: whips and canes and latex gloves and a punishing array of dildos, but harsh hands and soft words strip away what’s superficial, and seeing someone at their weakest? Their most exposed? That’s a shortcut to authenticity.

His mother weren't wrong; he _does_ live all his emotions at once. Whereas Tommy, here, looks like he’s trying to live with no emotions at all. Silly boy. If there’s one thing Alfie has learnt, it’s this: where there is pain there's potential, where there is trauma there's truth.

Campbell and Tommy are ready, have been for three or four minutes. Yet now, now of _all_ fucking times, Alfie feels apprehensive. Like he hasn't prepared enough. Like he hasn’t spent forty-five minutes loosening Tommy up, flogging his stomach and back till he made those soft grunting sounds and finally began to relax. He’s stretched him with a good-sized plug and teased his hard little prick until Tommy was so loose-limbed he had to be led to the chair, helped into position, even guided onto the length of Campbell's not inconsiderable cock. Which is where he is still, hands cuffed behind his boyfriend's neck, waiting for Alfie to join them.

It's not like Alfie ain't done this before, ain't fucked a hole with another guy; he's had more than his share of hedonistic nights with eager, adventurous men. But Tommy? Tommy's not some bloke at a sex party who takes fists every other weekend. That much is obvious as soon as Alfie slides a fingertip in alongside Campbell's girth.

It’s natural that Tommy’s nervous, intimidated, even, having a fantasy and acting it out are two very different things. It’s perfectly possible to be terrified and to want something all the same. Pushing through the fear’s a lot like pushing through the pain and that’s exactly what he tells Tommy. They’ll take it slow.

He takes more lube from the large bottle on the floor and coats his hands again. It's already fuckin' _everywhere_ , including halfway up Tommy's back.

"Just relax," he says, rubbing firm circles into Tommy’s lower spine.

Tommy nods against Campbell's shoulder and shifts his hips enough for Alfie to slide his finger around Campbell’s cock. He rubs his thumb around Tommy’s rim, careful but insistent, coaxing smooth, tight muscle and thin, reluctant skin. 

Campbell, thank fuck, seems to understand the need to keep things gentle. He does nothing more than run his hands loosely up and down Tommy’s sides. It's peaceful for a few minutes, focused, all of them working together towards a delicious common goal. Tommy relaxes enough to allow a second finger in.

Alfie kisses down the length of Tommy’s sweat-prickled spine, as he takes himself in hand. He’s achingly hard, and more than a little aware of being watched as he slicks his cock.

“Quite the equipment you have there,” Campbell says, voice thick with lust. 

Tommy’s muscles tighten reflexively. 

“Your body can do unbelievable things if you tell your mind to let it,” Alfie whispers. He thrusts his fingers gently as he gets himself good and ready. “You’re gonna feel incredible. Just listen to what I say.” 

Tommy’s breathing stutters; Alfie decides enough’s enough, it's time to get this done.

"Get ready, darling," he instructs. There’s no perfect way to do this; it’s gonna feel a lot. He spreads Tommy's arse cheek out with one hand and lines himself up with the other. “Nice deep breath, then blow out slow, okay?”

He pushes in over Campbell's cock with as smooth a thrust as he can. Tommy yelps and grips the back of the chair, back arching as Alfie drives in. 

Alfie has to stop half-way, the pressure almost unbearable — two cocks wrapped in a vice-like grip, squeezed against each other. “Don’t move. Just breathe. Let your body open.”

Tommy stays as still as stone, his hands balled into fists.

"Breathe through the pain. You'll get used to it.” He glances down at Campbell, neck stretched taught, eyes tight shut, too lost in his own pleasure to help his boyfriend through it. 

“We're gonna count to ten,” Alfie says, squeezing Tommy’s shoulder. “You can absolutely do this.”

Tommy nods, almost imperceptibly, and Alfie starts to count. “One … two … three …" he says, pacing the numbers slowly, "four … five ... six — breathe _slowly_ that's it, _slowly_ — "… seven … eight …” and _fuck_ , Tommy’s making this hard on himself, his hole’s a ring of steel, “nine — come on, sweetheart — ten," and with a shiver, something _gives_. Tommy's body opens, and it feels so bloody good Alfie growls and loses himself. For a brief moment he can't talk, can't think. He shields his eyes against Tommy's shoulder and tries to collect himself.

"There you go, treacle," he says when he trusts his voice not to waver. "You're doing so fuckin' well. We'll take it nice and slow." He rubs between Tommy's shoulder-blades and kisses the top of his hair; he's rewarded with the sweetest little high-pitched mewl he's ever fuckin' heard. That's the beauty of a ball-gag — makes it nigh on impossible to hide those pretty sounds. 

"I'm gonna move," he warns, "need to balance my weight." 

Alfie pulls one knee up high, beside Campbell's hip, keeps the other foot flat on the floor. He's as careful as he can possibly be, but still Tommy whimpers like a kicked puppy. Alfie wraps a hand around his chest and prepares to wait some more. He knows he's pushing limits, but that's where the magic lies, on the other side of the pain. 

"He's okay, aren't you, Thomas?" Campbell says after a while.

It's hard to tell the response; Tommy's forehead is pressed hard into Campbell's shoulder and held there by Campbell's large hand. Alfie hesitates, wishing he could see Tommy's face, but this is the easiest position for double penetration and shifting their bodies to change it now would be cruelty not kindness. 

"He's always like this when he takes a cock," Campbell strokes Tommy's hair. "Takes a while to relax, don’t you, pet? Needs the tension fucked out of him."

Tommy stretches his back and makes a disgruntled sound that reminds Alfie of that first session with the paddle ... _I like to feel it, Mr. Solomons._ Stoic little cunt. 

Alfie pinches Tommy's nipple and wants to devour the whine he lets out. "I'm gonna move again. Okay?" 

Tommy dips his head and hums against Campbell's shoulder.

"Remember, you just pinch his neck if it gets too much, an' we'll stop. Clear, Mr. Campbell?"

"Of course," Campbell replies. Alfie starts to tip his hips. Tommy makes a low, desperate sound that tugs at Alfie's heartstrings almost as much as his cock.

"That's it, Thomas, you take us," Campbell says; his voice as strained as Alfie’s.

Thomas makes a wet sound and drool leaks from his mouth.

"Fucking beautiful," Alfie whispers, leaning down to lick the saliva that trickles down his jaw. He reaches down between them to soothe the stretch where their bodies connect and allows himself the fantasy that it’s only the two of them.

Campbell shifts slightly beneath them, and Alfie’s dragged back to the moment, pressing his hip bones against the roundness of Tommy's arse. There’s another wet exhale, and Tommy writhes away, which is thoroughly counter-productive as it pushes Campbell deeper. Alfie eases up and Tommy properly squirms — his hips shift first back and then forwards, like he's testing how much he can move. Not much is the obvious answer, even less so when Alfie tips his pelvis firmly up towards Campbell's.

"You're not going anywhere, sweetheart," he says, "it’s okay to feel overwhelmed."

Alfie starts to rock his hips — it's almost impossible not to — and as he does, Campbell matches him with smaller upward thrusts. Tommy moves between them: erratic, snappy little jerks that make him growl and twist his head. It turns Alfie on no end, feeling Tommy struggle between them, a delicious throwback to the way he fought in the middle of his caning. His arse is still severely bruised, though faded from livid purple to an uglier yellow and green. Campbell digs his fingers into the marked flesh as he tries to hold Tommy still, but it's Alfie laying his weight more heavily that seems to do the trick. He rests there for a moment, just feeling the connection, aware of Tommy's pulse tapping gently against his cock. He pulls out and grinds his hips, and slowly presses back in. It's deep. And delicious. And he does it again. And again. And again. And _again_. Until they're working together — he and Campbell — sliding against each other in the tight sleeve of Tommy's body.

"Fuck, you feel so good, taking us both. This what you wanted? Hmm?" 

Tommy, of course, can't answer. The room is obscenely quiet save for the sounds of sliding and slapping as two cocks work Tommy open, stretching him to his limits. Even without the gag, he’d likely have lost the use of his tongue. Alfie rolls his hips rhythmically, slowly increasing his pace; beneath him, Tommy flattens his body, flexes his legs and finally gives in. He turns to putty, slack and open, at the mercy of two larger men, and Alfie’s about to show him just how amazing that can feel when Campbell, with a frightful grimace, shoots his fucking load.

Alfie is briefly stunned; it's a wonder how ugly some people can look at the height of the sweetest pleasure. That thought is knocked clean from his mind as a skull cracks into his nose. Tommy has flung his head back, hard, and filled Alfie's mouth with blood. In a split second, all hell breaks loose. They’re no longer bodies fucking; they’re beasts in a vicious fight. 

"You little _cunt_!" Campbell shouts as Thomas claws at his beard. 

There are heels and nails and elbows flying and most of them are Tommy’s. Alfie grabs him round the waist and drags him off the chair, yanking him away from Campbell to wrestle in mid-air. 

"Wait, just fucking wait," he pants, but Tommy's too wild and strong. He kicks Alfie’s shins, throws back his head, and scrams like a cornered cat, (one that’s no stranger to fighting with his wrists cuffed together, which raises a whole host of interesting questions, don't it?) He's focused on not taking another blow to the face; on keeping Tommy's elbows away from his ribs; on figuring out how to adjust his grip without letting Tommy escape when just as abruptly as it started, everything fucking stops — Tommy goes limp in his arms and crumples to the floor. Alfie goes with 'im, cursing, as he tries to soften their fall. His knees hit the wood too hard and he groans and doubles over, Tommy trapped beneath him with his head hung low to the floor. Alfie's fumbling with the buckle on the gag, desperate to get the damn thing off, when he notices the looming shadow of Campbell hovering over them, staring down with an eerie sense of calm. The look he gives them makes the hairs on Alfie’s arms prickle.

"Come now, Thomas, control yourself. No need for this display." 

When he tuts and turns towards the sofa, the catalyst becomes clear; there's a mark on the back of Campbell's neck as red as the Chinese flag. 

Alfie's not sure which hits him first, the anger or the dismay. Tommy drags himself to sit against the sofa and and sits there, panting, wiping at his mouth, the blood-stained ball-gag on the floor between them as a silent reprimand. 

Alfie can feel the anger uncoiling inside him like a heavy length of rope. "You animal,” he growls, “you sick, deranged, _fuck_." 

Campbell puts a hand up to the back of his neck and makes a dismissive sound. "I was about to put an end to it."

"Like _hell_ you were," Alfie roars. That pinch mark is no pale pink, it's the red of desperation, of prolonged, unheeded attempts. 

"Get out. Get the fucking _fuck_ out," he yells as he staggers to his feet; he lunges at Campbell wildly and punches him in the face.

Campbell stands tall as a tree, utterly unmoved. He touches the spot where Alfie hit him and checks his fingers for blood. There is none, more's the pity. He picks up his clothes and clicks his tongue like he’s summoning a dog.

"Come on, Thomas, you heard the man. It’s time for us to go." 

Alfie's so incensed at the audacity he huffs an incredulous laugh, but it’s quickly dampened when Tommy shifts his legs and staggers to his feet. He can't _actually_ be planning to go with him ... Alfie feels sick. 

"He ain't going anywhere with you, mate. You ignored his fucking signal."

"So did you, Mr. Solomons," Campbell says, casually tying his shoes.

"I didn't fuckin' _know_!" Alfie yells.

"Oh, come off it, Mr. Solomons. You’re the one who gagged him. You get off on hurting people. You got off on hurting him." Campbell ducks his head at Tommy like he's an object of derision. Alfie has to shut his mouth — he can't engage in this shit. Campbell seems to take his silence as license to carry on.

“You couldn't wait to fuck 'im, and now you've had your go. Something of a disappointment, isn’t he?”

Alfie’s body flushes with panic when he sees Tommy get to his feet, staggering clumsily into his jeans with hands still tied together.

"Here, let me undo 'em," he says, keeping his voice soft and low. He dangles the key to the handcuffs to illustrate his intent. Tommy wipes at his eyes before looking up, transferring a shining mess of slick from his face to his forearms. His face is pale and blotchy; his mouth marked red by the gag, but the storm in his eyes has clouded over, replaced by unnatural calm. Alfie wants the anger back, the pure unfettered rage — this nothingness is more upsetting than any broken nose. 

"Don't go with 'im," hesays, fitting the key in the cuffs."You have family, right? A friend? I'll drop you wherever you need to go."

"I need to go home.” Tommy says.

Campbell smiles victoriously and reaches for Tommy's arm.

Alfie wants to grab him too, to stop him leaving this room, but he can’t bring himself to touch him after what he's just done. He doesn’t have the right. "I'm sorry, Thomas," he says. "I would _never_ have continued, I _—_ "

"S'fine,” Tommy answers quickly. “I overreacted."

And that, _that_ hits Alfie harder than anything else tonight. The way Tommy brushes it off, pulls his jumper over his unbuttoned shirt and follows Campbell out the door.

***

Alfie doesn't sleep that night, he's so angry with himself. The look of resignation on Tommy's face plays itself over and over. That bastard Campbell was right about one thing: he _did_ want to fuck Tommy, and he let that desire override all his better instincts as a Dom. He wanted to fulfil Tommy’s fantasy, to make sure no one else hurt him, and yet that’s exactly what _he’s_ done. Maybe deep down he wanted to? He can't deny a certain fetish for fucking a guy to tears, for pushing someone so far and hard they break down under his hands. But only when it's negotiated, when the submissive wants that too, when he knows there's catharsis afterwards and the guy goes home relieved. Elated. Floating for several days.

 _Fuck_ ... that is so far from what's happened tonight Alfie can't get it out of his head. His guilt is heighted by a creeping sense of certainty that the scene was never Tommy's idea at all. 

When the alarm goes at half past three, he’s already out of bed. The sun's yet to reveal itself as he wanders into Billingsgate market. It's loud and bright and sea-wind cold under the high yellow roof. He feels like his head's underwater as the sights and sounds surround him: porters and traders yelling at each other in a language all their own; huge boxes of fish and ice being flung around as if they were nothing more than lego-bricks. The world, it seems, continues to turn despite the events of last night. 

Alfie breathes in the stink and the hollers and wanders off to find Mark, his scallop-trader of choice.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, Alf, you get in a fight?” he yells, as Alfie sloshes his way to the stall.

“Some’ing like that, mate, yeah.” He knows from the rear-view mirror that he looks a fucking state. 

“Hope the other guy took a pasting!” Mark cackles.

“He came off worse alright." An image of Tommy collapsed against that sofa flashes through Alfie's mind. He closes his eyes and breathes in deep and focuses on today. "A hundred and twen’y kilos of your finest scallops, mate.”

It’s well before 5am when he makes it to the enormous conference hotel. He has to prove his identity three times before the door staff will let ‘im in. Turns out a chef with two black eyes is a source of great suspicion; Special Branch are sniffing round on account of the royal guests. 

By half five, everyone’s aproned-up and the kitchen’s a hive of activity. He’s heard the lads whispering about his face, but none of them dares to ask. Alfie ain’t exactly known for his cool temper in the kitchen, and today the stakes are higher than usual ... he’s already made one lad bin half the chorizo he’d prepared.

"You’ve ‘ad three days to get this shit perfect, Liam. Start again. And don’t fuck it up this time."

Olly arrived a few minutes ago and has been scuttling around behind him like a crab ever since. It's a wonder the swing doors don't take the poor bastard out with the force that Alfie slams through them.

“Was there something, Olly?” he demands, spinning round to confront him. “Or are you going to follow me round in silence for the rest of the fuckin’ day?”

"I need to talk to you,” Olly starts, then abruptly stops, physically recoiling at the sight of Alfie's nose. “Is everything alright?" he asks. 

_Not really. I’ve fallen for a man I barely know. He’s being abused by his partner, and last night, when I thought I was indulging his fantasy, I was complicit in his rape._ "Perfectly. Why’d you ask?" 

“Nothing, boss. I need to run through the front of house with you before the event team arrives.” 

“Come on then, let's get it over with. I have work to do.”

They walk through the small maze of corridors that leads to the main conference hall, where close to one hundred tables have been arranged cabaret-style. 

"The VIPs are on the top three tables," Olly explains, "the ones in front of the stage. The Mayor, the royals, presenter, biggest benefactors and celebrities will be sitting there. From table four onwards, they get less prestigious."

"Right, well put Edward on table one, Luan and Scott on two and three. Agency staff can do the rest. And keep a tight reign on ‘em, yeah?"

He leaves Olly to discuss the wine and heads back to the kitchens; he’s only been gone a few minutes, but the radio’s already blaring. 

“Oi!” he shouts at the top of his lungs. “Turn that racket off! Did I tell you to start a fuckin’ party in my absence?”

“No, chef,” Liam mumbles, fumbling with the controls.

“Well?”

“No, chef!” they all reply. 

“There’s twenty-five of us. And there’s _eight-hundred_ of them. Do I need to do the maths for you? Anyone who thinks there’s time to fuck about today can get out of this kitchen NOW.”

“Sorry, chef," Nathan says, "we’re on it, aren't we lads?"

“Oh, _we’re on it,_ are we?” Alfie says in an unflattering approximation of Nathan's voice. “You better fuckin' 'ad be, or I will NOT BE RESPONSIBLE FOR WHICH BITS OF YOU GET CHOPPED OFF!” 

If he had energy to waste, he’d continue his tirade, but his heart’s not really in it today (which ought to be a worry). He’s distracted by something flapping in the corner of his vision and turns round to find Olly looking like some sort of dumb-struck parrot, flanked by two dark-haired women.

"Well, speak up then, Olly!"

“This is Lizzie Stark and Ada Thorne, boss. From the Small Heath Foundation.”

“Are you going to be this loud all evening?” the shorter one — Ada — asks. Her voice is stern, but her wry smile suggests she's at least partly amused. 

“Not if this lot DO AS THEY’RE FUCKIN’ TOLD!” Alfie yells over his shoulder. He ain’t being told how to run his kitchen by this pair, expensive clothes or not. 

“Right, well the man who has organised this evening would like to meet you,” Ada says.

“Oh, well, I am _honoured_ ,” Alfie says with a little bow. “But I am also very busy.” 

"So is he," she says, just as the door swings open, "and yet he's made the time. Tom, meet Mr. Solomons.” 

Alfie wonders for a split second if his eyes are playing tricks, but no, there stands Tommy, dressed in a dark blue three-piece suit and a frown that could make men wince. Alfie drags a hand down his bruised face and wonders how this can be happening. Tommy looks calm as a lake; he spreads his legs and folds his arms and blinks so slowly it don't seem real. He looks like a five-star tasting menu — intimidating as fuck.

“Tom?” Ada prompts. “You wanted to meet the chef?” 

Tommy clears his throat loudly, turns on his heels and leaves.

The two women exchange looks that say they ain’t accustomed to questioning. The taller one shakes her head; the shorter one tuts and sighs. Alfie’d find it funny if he weren’t so busy sympathising with the wide-eyed, half-gutted fish on Nathan’s slab; he feels an affinity so visceral he has to hold his stomach. 

“Olly, take Ada and Lizzie here through the front-of-house plan, please.” 

He waits a few seconds, for propriety's sake, then follows Tommy into the corridor. He spots the door to the gents’ toilets closing on its dampner.

“Thomas?” he says, poking his head round the door. There’s no answer, but he steps in and sees a flash of blue in the mirror. 

Tommy is leaning on one of the sinks, rubbing his eyes with thumb and forefinger. He resets his face as he straightens up.

“Fuck, I had no idea," Alfie says. "So, all this is you?" he waves his arm vaguely in the direction of the main room.

"Yes," Tommy replies.

"I’m sorry,” Alfie says, when the silence stretches between them. “I never meant to hurt you. And I don't expect you to forgive me, but I—” 

“—Chester can’t know you’re here,” Tommy says, cutting off the apology. His tone is cold and clipped, but there’s an undercurrent of fear. 

"That fucking bastard’s here?" He can't help the surge of anger but he tries to tamp it down. "Fuck's sake, Thomas. I'm _worried_ about you."

"You’re _worried_ about me?” Tommy snorts. He takes a cigarette from his inside pocket and toys it between his fingers. “Then stay out of my way tonight. And don’t fuck anything up.” His voice might sound authoritative but the cigarette trembles in his hand.

"This ain't okay. _You’re_ not okay. You can't pretend it was nothing.”

“It _was_ nothing,” Tommy snaps. “I don’t need your concern. I’ve worked six months for tonight and that’s all that fucking matters.”

The door opens, and Nathan walks in. He takes one look at the pair of them and walks straight out again.

"That's not true,” Alfie says. “Meet me back 'ere. When all this is over. Please. I’m so fucking sorry, I think you and I should talk.”

“There’s no need to feel guilty, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Alfie ain’t sure if that were meant to cut, but he feels wounded all the same.

“That’s not what I’m worried about, but since you mention it, there’s _every_ need to feel guilty, and what’s more you can’t fuckin’ stop me. Any more than I can stop you pretending last night was nothing.”

“It WAS nothing. It's nothing if I fucking _SAY_ it’s nothing. You don’t get to decide!” Tommy’s face has burst into flames and it takes Alfie off guard. He’s seen a hint of that temper before, but he didn’t expect it now. When he’s trying to explain ... or apologise ... or fuck knows what he’s doing, whatever it is he's blown it. He raises both hands in the air in a show of acquiescence that certainly don’t match how he’s feeling.

“Tommy, I mean it. Come back after. Tell me you don’t feel _something_.”

Tommy straightens his tie in the mirror and nods as he walks out the door.

***

The rest of the day Alfie’s not sure whether he’s facing up or down. He’s bought a ticket for a rollercoaster ride that’s gonna last eighteen hours whether he holds onto the bloody bars or not — may as well strap in. There’re various minor panics; a cut finger, a dropped tray of beef, some fuss over table plans because the Head of the Met Police pulled out, but broadly speaking things have happened without significant incident.

By ten pm, they’re clearing away the dessert course, and Alfie’s dead on his feet. There’s several more hours of clearing up ahead, but all he can think of is Thomas. Tommy. _It’s nothing if I say it's nothing_. Like saying that makes it true. And what does he mean? Last night was nothing? It's all been nothing? He _feels_ nothing? Alfie's dragged back to the real world by a cacophony of noise outside the kitchen. A waiter he don’t recognise shouts, “we need some ice. It's urgent!” 

He's swiftly followed by a petite woman, dragging Edward in her wake. 

"Who's in charge of this boy?" she asks in an accent so prim and proper Alfie wonders if she's taking the piss.

"Well he's on my bloody payroll, so I suppose that makes him mine." Alfie braces himself for whatever fuck-up's occurred. Course they couldn't make it through the evening without a bloody incident, could they?

"Good. I'm afraid he's rather upset," the woman says. "He’s just poured hot coffee into the lap of one of our guests.”

"What the fuck, Ed?" Alfie yells.

"Well actually," Miss Cut Glass interrupts, "I think there’s rather more to it.” She turns to Edward. “I'm not sure what he said to you, darling, but for what it’s worth, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer man."

Alfie looks at Edward for an explanation, but the poor lad looks on the brink of tears. "Alright, calm down, just breathe eh, Ed? I’m sure everything’ll be fine."

"I hope his fucking prick falls off," Edward spits. And that _is_ out of character, because Ed’s one of the quieter ones, always so polite. 

"It's _him_. It's that inspector," Edward says, and Alfie recalls the story, some bastard in uniform who traded sex for cautions; kept young offenders out of jail for the price of a blow job or fuck (depending on how much 'e liked the look of ya. Edward's pretty as a doll). 

“Are you sure?” Alfie asks, but he already knows the answer. Campbell’s on that table, and Edward’s not one to lie. Alfie’s heart hammers in his chest, adrenaline coursing through him; he balls his hands into fists as he looks the lad in the eye. “What did he say to you, Edward?” 

Edwards starts breathing hard. “He said …” he stammers, “he said … he threatened to … _shit_. Sorry, Alfie. He said he wanted me to …”

“It’s alright, darling,” the woman cuts in, “you don’t have to say.” She looks up at Alfie in warning and shakes her head a little. “My name is May Carleton. Is there someone who can take you home?”

“Thank you, Ms Carleton,” Alfie says, once Ed’s in Olly's hands. “Can I ask, was the man’s name Campbell by any chance?”

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, it was. And the rumour-mill precedes him. I think your lad might find he's not alone should he choose to speak to the police.” 

Alfie heads out of the back doors to clear his head a little. He bums a fag from one of the pot-washers — not that he usually indulges, but it’s something to do with his hands. 

The tall woman from earlier, Lizzie, is slouched against the wall further down, cigarette poised between long fingers as she blows smoke into the air. Alfie folds himself smaller and hides behind the large bins — last thing he wants is a conversation, he needs a second to think. Seems the side alley's busy though, the other lass, Ada, appears.

“Lizzie, have you seen Tommy?” 

Alfie’s ears prick up — not just at Tommy’s name but at the tone in which it’s spoken. 

“No, I just ducked out for a smoke. What’s wrong, Ada?”

“Arthur’s looking for him; he’s supposed to be on stage for the closing speech in five minutes.”

“Well he’ll be back then, won’t he? There's no way he'll fuck up tonight after all the work he’s put into his precious bloody Foundation.” There’s a long pause; Lizzie grinds her cigarette stub into the concrete. “Unless there’s something else?”

“It might not be related," Ada says, "but Chester just announced their engagement.”

“ _What_? When the fuck did he propose?” Lizzie pinches her lower lip and pushes away from the wall. 

“No idea. Not that Tom tells me anything these days, but he didn't look too happy and he left the table before the champagne even arrived. No one’s seen him since.” 

Alfie feels like he’s been kicked in the stomach. 

“Oh hold up,” Lizzie mutters, drawing herself up to her full height. “Here comes Lady Muck.” 

Ms. Carleton trots down the side of the building. 

“Evening, May. Shouldn’t you be inside, lording it up with the toffs?” 

“Lizzie. A pleasure as ever. Have you seen your boss?”

“No,” Lizzie answers with a nonchalant sigh. “But he’s certainly a man in demand. I best go and look for him.” She sashays off towards the main entrance like she's thoroughly done with them all.

“So," May says to Ada. "This engagement...” 

“I take it you don’t approve?”

“Not really. Chester's a manipulative bastard.”

“So is Tommy,” Ada says.

“There have been rumours, you know. At my father’s club, and who knows elsewhere."

"There are always rumours, May."

"Well I don’t trust him, and from what I can see Tommy is far from happy."

"He must tell you more than he tells me, then."

"I may be speaking out of turn here, Ada, but I’m _worried_. Tom came up to the stables last week, and he barely spoke, wouldn’t ride, didn't come into the house. He couldn't even find a reason to berate my trainer. He just stood there, petting the horses for the best part of three hours, then left without a—” 

Ada’s phone rings. "Sorry," she says to May as she answers it. “Have you found ‘im, Lizzie? Right ... Well, to be fair Chester was in a bad mood _before_ the coffee got dropped in his lap, it's a wonder it wasn't more serious ... okay ... understood, I'll come and look as well.”

She ends the call and turns her attention back to May. “No sign of Tommy, but apparently the presenter's in a panic and Chester’s on the war path. I’d better head back in.”

Alfie doesn’t wait to hear any more. He runs back into the kitchens.

"Lads? You’re in charge of the clean up.” He throws Liam a set of keys and shrugs off his chef’s jacket. “Load everything into the van, bay 68, I’ll pay you time and a half.”

He heads to the gents where he last saw Tommy, like a dog following a scent. It’s stupid to hope Tommy might have come to find him, but he don't know where else to start. The door is slightly ajar and the overhead strip-light flickers erratically, giving the whole room an ominous, greenish glow. A flash of blue fabric on the floor catches Alfie’s eye and for a brief moment his heart leaps, until he sees it’s only a jacket — Tommy’s suit jacket — wet and crumpled in a toilet stall. The panic that’s already rising ratchets up a level. 

He heads back out to the corridor where everything now looks too bright and the walls vibrate with bass. He heads for the main event room, where a boy-band is playing on stage. Thankfully the guests are all too pissed or distracted to notice some bloke in a sweat-soaked t-shirt wading through the sea of abandoned tables and chairs. It's dark and smells of booze and bodies. Tommy's nowhere to be seen.

The band stops, and a presenter he vaguely recognises from the telly promises a few words from the evening’s main sponsor. There’s a brief kerfuffle with a young sound engineer before she apologises and introduces a video clip instead. Tommy’s face appears, pixelated and twenty feet tall (and no less stunning for it). Alfie's spellbound for a moment, watching the chiselled face talk with passion and poise about the work of his charity. The film cuts to horses in a wide-open field and interviews with young beneficiaries. Alfie feels a swell of something like pride, a momentary abatement of panic, and then the video ends and the crowd applauds and his sense of urgency doubles. 

He paces through to the front reception and runs smack into the same bloody gaggle of dark-haired women —the tall one, the posh one, the sister. _Fuck this fucking place and everyone in it._ He runs both hands through his greasy hair as he scans the rest of the foyer. Some lanky bloke with slicked back hair half-walks, half-runs up to the group. He looks as stressed as Alfie feels and he's seriously out of breath.

“I found ‘im,” he shouts, leaning down on his knees. “I fucking found ‘im, Ade”

“Where, Arthur?” Ada asks.

“In the gents out back, by the kitchens. I ain’t never seen ‘im like that, though.” His voice is rough, and his brow furrows in response to the questions being fired at him by all three women at once. He answers only to Ada.

“He was in a right fuckin’ state. Sick, I think. He was shakin’ an’ everything. An’ he weren’t makin’ no fuckin' _sense,_ Ade. Kept talking about the chef and _others_. He kept saying there was _others_ ... and that he weren’t never asked. And ... well," he looks a bit embarrassed. "Then he started talkin’ about _Grace_ and … and ... Tommy _always_ talks sense. _Always_.”

“Where _is_ he, Arthur?” May asks, clearly worried too.

“I called Chester to come and fetch 'im. He took 'im up to their room.”

That’s it. Alfie ain’t hangin’ around any longer.

“Which room?” he says, striding over and grabbing the man by his arm. He’s aware he’s barking aggressively, but couldn't give less of a shit. “ _Which fuckin’ room_?” he repeats.

Lanky gets suddenly lairy, shouting, “who the _fuck_ are you?” which is a fair enough question, of course it is, but Alfie ain't got time for it.

“A friend,” he answers. “A good friend. The chef who Tommy was lookin’ for back there, alright?” 

He’s met with a sea of bewildered faces.

“Take it from me. That man you’ve left ‘im with is _scum._ A fuckin' _animal_. I’ve seen it with me own two eyes.”

Ms Carleton looks like she’s about to speak, but stops herself, mouth held open in a small ‘o’.

“Tell ‘em,” Alfie yells at her. “You _know_ he's dangerous!”

“Arthur, this man is right. I’m not sure Chester’s the best person for Tommy to be with right now.” 

Arthur — and Alfie makes a mental note to knock his fucking block off when this is over — _still_ hesitates. P'raps he needs to be persuaded. “Look, you don’t know me, and I don’t know you, but—"

"I'm Tommy's eldest brother—"

Alfie can't even begin to process that clearly ridiculous fact. "Well you're a poor fuckin' excuse, because every second we hang around is a second you’re gonna regret."

Arthur looks messily furious, but can't seem to form any words. "If anything happens to Tommy ," Alfie continues, "I will _personally_ —” 

“Perhaps if we _all_ went?” one of the women says; Alfie’s lost track of who. “TELL ME WHICH FUCKIN’ ROOM!” he yells.

“Four-twenty-two,” Arthur says. “They’re in room four twenty-two.”

They head to the lifts, en masse, but Alfie has other plans. Once everyone else is waiting, he doubles-back to the stairs. By the time he reaches the fourth-floor corridor he’s panting heavily and stops to catch his breath. 

Room four two two is half-way down on the left-hand side. He knocks three times. Calmly. Like a normal person who isn’t about to fucking explode. There’s no answer but he can hear movement inside so knocks again.

Nothing.

The lift has arrived and the others are heading towards him. He gestures for them to stay quiet, which, thank fuck, they do. There’s the sound of retching from inside the room; someone's throwing up. It goes on for such a painfully long time that Alfie closes his eyes and claws at his beard. 

“I told you, he’s fucking sick,” Arthur whispers, as if vindicated by this fact.

And what if he _is_ just sick? If Alfie’s food has poisoned him? Wouldn’t that just be tragically poetic and so much better as well? Campbell’s voice rips away that delusion in one hissed, ghastly sentence.

“Shut the _fuck_ up, Thomas, and pull yourself together.”

Alfie’s about to shoulder his way in, when Lizzie taps on his shoulder. She leans over and knocks on the door herself.

“Excuse me,” she says in a London accent that sounds disconcertingly accurate. “Room service, may we come in?”

There’s a sigh from inside the room, and Campbell answers, “We didn't order. Go away.”

“Pardon me, Sir, but we were led to believe someone might be in need of assistance.”

This time there’s a delay before Campbell answers. “Just a touch of food-poisoning. We’re fine, thank you for checking.”

“Would you like us to call the doctor, Sir?”

“No. That won’t be necessary.”

“I'm calling security," Ada whispers, taking out her phone. "May, you call the police."

"I think you should leave this to him and me," Alfie says, reluctantly making an ally of Arthur. "This could get a little messy. We'll make sure Tommy's okay."

Lizzie resumes her role as room-service busy-body. "We are required by law to report food-poisoning to the relevant authorities.” She contorts her face to suggest she has no idea whether that’s true. "At least let me give you some mineral water." There's a pause and an audible sigh before the latch turns and the door opens half an inch. It's all the space Alfie needs to barge through like a bull. He's quickly followed by Arthur, the pair of them charging Campbell to the floor. Once Arthur has Campbell face down with his arm bent up his back, Alfie heads into the bathroom.

“Thomas,” he says quietly, locking the door behind him.

Thomas doesn't answer. His forearms rest on the marble sink and his breathing looks too laboured. Alfie moves closer. Close enough to hear the nasty sucking sound on every in-breath and smell the sweat on his shirt. 

“I came,” Tommy says after a minute or so, "to find you." His voice sounds scraped raw.

“I know, Thomas,” Alfie says. "He found you first though, right?" 

There's a right commotion outside the door, security must 'ave been called, but if Tommy registers any of it he shows no signs. He tilts his head a fraction, pushes up on his arms. Alfie's almost scared to meet his gaze in the mirror. 

"It's Tommy," Tommy says, and for a split second the energy between them is a physical presence that arcs and ricochets, overloading Alfie's circuits and flushing his skin with heat. Until his eyes stray over the gash in Tommy's eyebrow and the split in his lower lip and the heat of attraction melds into the heat of indignant rage. He wants to beat Campbell bloody, till he begs for Alfie to stop, till his teeth rattle in his head and he can no longer—

—The retching starts up again, long painful heaves that are frightening to watch. Any qualms he had about invading Tommy’s space seem ludicrously misplaced. By the time it stops, they’re both shaking and Alfie finds his arm wrapped under Tommy's middle.

"It's okay," he says, turning on the tap. He scoops cold water over Tommy's face, cups his palm to let him drink. And Tommy _drinks_. He drinks like he's fuckin' desperate, like his blood’s been turned to sand.

"Woah there, take it easy. Give yer stomach a chance." 

But Tommy opens wider yet and mouths at Alfie's palm, biting hard on the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger. It's a gesture so angry and desperate it sends a shudder down Alfie's spine.  He pushes his thumb into Tommy's mouth, presses down on his molars, squeezes up under that chiselled chin to clamp Tommy's lower jaw. It's possessive and too hard and he _knows_ that and yet he can't stop himself. Can't help but squeeze harder, until Tommy winces and Alfie floods with shame. He loosens his hold, but as he does so, Tommy clenches his teeth and sucks so hard it _hurts_.

" _Fuck_ ..." Alfie breathes. He's stuck in an emotional tug of war he didn't know he'd entered. Tommy's lips break their seal with a wet sound and he moans against Alfie's wrist. Alfie wants to say something meaningful, _I care about you_ _,_ or _let me in_. Instead he closes his eyes and rests them against the nape of Tommy's neck. There they stand, slumped on either side of this wordless bridge that neither knows how to cross. 

There’s a sharp rap on the bathroom door and the moment snaps; the bridge collapses. Tommy jolts and loses his footing on the wet tiles; they both end up on the floor, Tommy in Alfie's lap. 

“Tommy are you alright?” Ada’s voice carries through the wood. 

“Yes,” Tommy answers roughly. It’s a total fucking lie, his voice is so hoarse Ada doesn't hear him; she knocks and asks again.

Alfie answers for 'im. "I think we could do with an ambulance." Tommy  clearly  don't like that, starts struggling onto all fours. Alfie pulls him back and holds him between his thighs, both facing the door. 

"Okay," Ada replies. She swears and speaks to someone else and the voices fade away.

"You do need lookin' over mate. You're absolutely fucked." Alfie eases Tommy's head back so he can speak quietly into his ear. "Just for the sake of argument, how about you and I play a little game?" 

Tommy shuffles restlessly but keeps his head tipped against Alfie's shoulder.

"Let's pretend you've had a bad day. Some shit's gone down, some cunt took his fists to your face ... whatever. Point is, now you ain't feeling too good; ain't in a fit state to be making the best decisions. Decisions such as whether you need some medical attention."

Tommy coughs.

"So in this game, right, you're gonna listen to someone else for a bit. Someone like ... your sister p'raps?" 

Tommy shakes his head and tries to sit up, but Alfie holds his shoulders. "That's her innit? Outside that door?"

A nod and a painful sounding rasp, "she doesn't need to know."

"Right," Alfie says. He can understand the sentiment; he knows Tommy struggles with being vulnerable. "Not your sister then. And not your brother neither, cause he's an angry fucker and he ain't even on the list. Which leaves —"

"You," Tommy whispers. He huffs gently but his shoulders loosen. 

"Me. Good, that's decided. And given that you're listenin', you may as well hear the rules. All games 'ave rules, right? This one's no exception. So, rule one: you're gonna do as I say for the next few hours, even if you don't like it."

"Why?"

"Rule _Two,"_ Alfie continues, "you don't fuckin' question it. Because you _trust_ that I will only do what is in your best interests. For as long as this little game lasts." _That's a lot to ask after last night, innit? But Tommy doesn't argue._

"Rule three: if you _really_ don't like it, if you want something to stop, you just use your safeword. That overules everything else."

Tommy slumps back even further. As if he's relieved.

"If I have to use it _for_ you I will. Like I did before ... remember?"

"Mmm."

"I would have used it yesterday if I'd had any idea."

They sit for a few minutes, Alfie tentatively stroking Tommy's hair. Outside their little haven, the room’s gone awfully quiet. Much like Tommy himself, who says barely a word for the next hour and a half.

Not when the paramedics arrive and carry 'im out to the kingsize bed. Not when they prod 'im and poke 'im and debate what's actually wrong. _Concussion_ they decide and _compression of the larynx_. That last one pulls everyone up straight, don’t it, cause Tommy's collar was buttoned up over the red raw line.

"My tie," Tommy whispers, in response to the many questions. He gestures to a misshapen length of blue silk stretched on the bedroom floor. Alfie feels that rage rise up again, but Campbell's already been taken away, so it's no use to either of 'em. Tommy turns his back on the room and pulls his knees up high. 

The paramedics take the hint and start to pack up their kit. "We'd like to take him in for overnight observation." 

"No," Tommy answers, and it's the firmest thing he's said.

The lead paramedic concedes, "on the grounds that someone stays with him. Someone who isn't inebriated..."

Ada and Arthur are stood by the door, May's waiting outside. Alfie knows he has no claim but at the same time, he don't trust anyone else. He wants to stay with Tommy. 

"It's important someone's sober. In case he chokes or fits." 

And there, on a platter, is Alfie's perfect justification. The brother protests, flaps about like a stork on coke, but ultimately it's agreed. Tommy seals the deal when he reaches out and pats Alfie's arm. 

Eventually everyone else leaves, reluctantly entrusting Tommy to Alfie's care. No sooner are they alone than two Scenes of Crime Officers turn up. They confirm that Campbell's at Limehouse Police Station, _assisting with enquiries_. They ask copious stupid questions and want to take swabs and photographs, insisting it's best done tonight, _to preserve crucial evidence._ Alfie is horribly torn between what's best for Tommy right now, and what might get Campbell banged up.

It's nearly two in the morning and Tommy's starting to shiver. His shirt's untucked and open but he's still wearing socks and shoes.

"May I take a look?" The female officer asks, fingers hovering at Tommy's collar.

"No," Tommy answers.

"Please, Mr Shelby. Can you tell me who did this to you?" 

"No," Tommy repeats.

Alfie is confused. Why won't Tommy tell them?

"You don't know, Mr. Shelby, or you'd rather not say?"

"January," Tommy whispers.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

Tommy opens his eyes a fraction and looks directly at Alfie. There's a definite plea behind the web of broken blood-vessels. Alfie don't wanna see it. Don't wanna play any part in protecting that fucking _cunt._

"Mr Shelby?" the officer tries again, but Tommy remains stubbornly mute. He hasn't broken eye contact with Alfie since he said the bloody word. _Fuck it_ , what choice does Alfie have?

"That's enough, officers. We're done 'ere for tonight."

***

Half an hour later, Tommy’s showered and perched on the bed. Somehow he looks even worse than before, wrapped in a white towelling robe. His face has swollen up something proper and his skin has the bluish palour of an uncooked lingcod fillet. Alfie tries hard not to stare at the line around his neck.

"Mind if I take a quick shower myself?" he asks. 

"Sure," Tommy says, staring at the floor.

Alfie hesitates, unwilling to leave 'im like this, but there's no two ways about it, he needs to wash off the stink of sweat and kitchens. He does so as quickly as he can. When he walks out, dressed in a matching hotel robe, Tommy's already drunk two gins from the mini-bar and is taking the top off a third. He glances at Alfie and holds out the bottle, shrugging when Alfie declines. Three seconds later that bottle's gone too, swallowed with a grimace that suggests the aim is medicinal rather than pleasure. 

"That's enough," Alfie says before Tommy can reach for another. "I think you should get some sleep."

Tommy smirks and looks at his feet, hand poised on the door of the fridge. He straightens up and throws the empty bottle haphazardly onto the dressing table, watching with detached fascination as it rolls straight onto the floor.

Alfie lowers his tone. "Get into bed, Thomas."

"Don't fucking call me that."

"Get into bed," he repeats. Alfie's too exhausted for a stand-off, but neither of them moves. "Tommy," he sighs in exasperation. "Please, for fuck's sake, get in."

"You first," Tommy says, with a pout of his swollen lip. 

It's not exactly in the spirit of Rule Two now, is it, but Alfie ain't gonna argue. He slides under the covers and watches Tommy get in. Once they're facing each other across two feet of crisp white cotton, the reality kicks in. He knows so very little about Tommy. Knows how he reacts to pain, knows how to give him pleasure. But what then? What happens afterwards? How does he bring 'im back down? 

"Tell me what you need," he says. 

Tommy looks at him like he's been asked to explain the theory of quantum mechanics.

"What do you normally do? Ya know ... after something intense?"

"Drink half a bottle of something good and sleep in separate beds."

"Right," Alfie runs his hands down his face three times. He has to pause to collect his thoughts from the wall they've been shot at by Tommy's metaphorical firearm. "Well, that minibar don't stock anything _good_ and we don't have separate beds. So what's plan B, hmm? Cause your plan A mate, it's fucking _shit_." He can feel his blood-pressure rising — the very idea of Tommy going home to sleep alone after some of the scenes they've done is ... it's fucking criminal is what it is. He takes a deep breath and looks Tommy in the eye. "Do you like to be held?" he asks.

"Held?" Tommy mumbles, as if the very idea's ridiculous. "Can't really remember."

"Can't really ... what d'ya mean you can't remember?"

"Guess it's been a long time."

"What about when you were a kid?"

Tommy closes his eyes, hopefully to access some far-away thought of being hugged on his mother's knee. Alfie has a lot of those memories — his mother scolding in Russian before grabbing his face between cool dry hands and kissing him on the head. Falling over and being scooped up and hugged till he couldn't breathe. Coming home drunk or battered a few years later and being clouted round the head with a tea towel (and scooped up and hugged till he couldn't breathe ... and _then_ scolded, in a combination of Russian and Yiddish and the foulest East End slurs his mum'd picked up at work). 

"I usually did the holding." 

"Fuck me. Ain't you just the veritable afternoon radio drama?"

Tommy pinches at his still-closed eyes and shuffles uncomfortably.

"I bet whoever you were holding felt much better for it. Didn't they?"

Tommy doesn't answer and Alfie don't know if he's caused offence. "How did you comfort yourself then? When you was on your own? Were you a teddy bear or a blanket boy? Or did you simply hang onto your dick?"

Tommy opens his eyes again. "What the fuck makes you think I did any of those things?"

"Well you might be Thomas Michael Shelby, President of Shelby Corporation Limited and Founder of the Small Heath Foundation and Chairman of the Birmingham Chamers of Commerce and advisor to the Select Committee on not-making-a-series-of-fuckin'-terrible-social-decisions, etcetera etcetera etcetera," he pauses for an exagerrated breath. "BUT, as far as my research suggests, you are still fuckin' human ain'tcha? Still got a head and a heart and some personal needs that gotta be met every now and then. Some rather _particular_ needs from what I've learnt so far."

Tommy smiles a tiny almost-smile that doesn't reach his lips. There's something guilty hidden behind those half-closed lids and Alfie's gonna hear it. "Come on then, what was it? Did you like to hug your sister's doll? Or wear yer mum's nightie?" 

"Fuck off," Tommy whispers, bringing his hands up under his chin. "Used to suck me fingers, if you must know."

Alfie strokes a loose strand of hair from Tommy's face. There's a smile forming low in his own belly, the sort that rises up and reveals itself by twisting his lips out of shape. He tries hard to suppress it, don't want Tommy to think that he's mocking, but Tommy's lips curl too — a timid gesture that he hides by dipping his head.

A few moments pass before Alfie dares speak. "Turn over and face the door."

Tommy looks up at him sheepishly, considering his options.

"Rule one," Alfie reminds him, "you do as I say? Hmm?"

Tommy shuffles over awkwardly, yanking the towelling robe. Alfie takes him in his arms and makes him the little spoon. "Hold my hand," he says. He reaches for one of Tommy's hands and laces their fingers together. "Now I'm holding you and you're holding me. See?"

Tommy sighs tightly, his shoulders tense and his breath incomplete. He really ain't used to this.

"That's it. That's all we're doin' right? Nothing to be scared of, see?"

"I'm not fucking scared," Tommy says, but his body disagrees. Within a couple of minutes he's shuddering like he's cold.

Alfie waits to see if it'll pass. When it doesn't, he takes Tommy's free hand and lifts it from the bed. "Which fingers?" he asks. Tommy's back stiffens like a barricade.

"Show me," Alfie says, stroking Tommy's palm with the pad of his thumb. "Show me what makes you feel safe." 

Tommy's touches his fingertips to his lips but can't seem to go any further. 

"You wanna suck mine instead?" Alfie whispers, "like you did before?"

A tiny noise escapes from Tommy and he flinches violently, curling his legs up higher in an attempt to cover the hitch.

"No need to be strong here, right? No need to think about anything 'cept what you can feel right now. It's the greatest antidote to fear — existing in the present. Just you and me and clean sheets and several hours till morning."

Tommy pushes his two middle fingers into his mouth, and Alfie can't help but feel a tiny bit disappointed. That it ain't _his_ fingers wrapped in that heat. That it ain't like that night on the table. But as he hears the rhythmic sucking sounds and feels Tommy's breathing shallow he knows beyond a doubt that he's doing something right, at least.

At last.

The shit can wait till morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: non-consensual sex and dubious consent, violence, bad BDSM etiquette, thoroughly toxic and abusvie relationship.
> 
> Thanks as ever to museboundinshallows for listening to me whinge and change my mind constantly about this chapter. And sorry for fiddling endlessly after you had beta-read. All remaining mistakes are absolutely my own.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this loooooong chapter. (Sorry, that's what happens when plot gets in the way).


	9. Dangerous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He rests his head on the steering wheel, reminding himself that Tommy is in the best place, whilst channeling his subdued rage into imagining the most elaborate and painful ways he will maim Chester Campbell if he ever sets eyes on ‘im again. A sharp knock at the window disturbs this dark reverie. He shouldn’t be surprised; if there’s one lesson he’s learned in life it’s that things can always get worse. 
> 
> For warnings see the end. If you're still here, I'm sure you know what you're in for, but I hate spoilers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has taken an inordinate amount of time. It follows on immediately from chapter 8, sorry, I know that feels like a long time ago. It got so long that I've had to split it into two. So 10 chapters in total now! (And probably an epilogue - because that's my get out of jail free card!) 
> 
> Anyway, hopefully won't be too long before I get the last chapter finished! I hope it was worth the wait...

Five hours' peace is all they get, give or take, before someone knocks at their hotel-room door. Alfie’s only just dozed off; he's been on edge all night — too wary of the fragile breaths beside ‘im to actually relax. He'd really like to appreciate the sight beside 'im: the curve of Tommy's skull; the funny little crease at the base of his earlobe. Unfortunately, the impatient cunt outside the door has other plans.

"Message for Mr Shelby,” a man’s voice calls, accompanied by another sharp rap.

Tommy stirs beside 'im, and rasps something that’s presumably meant to sound like _fuck off,_ only his voice is so raw it’s almost incomprehensible.

“Stick it under the door,” Alfie shouts, pulling himself upright.

“I’m to hand it to you personally, sir,” the voice responds.

Tommy reaches over to his bedside table, finds the blue glass bottle of overpriced water and hurls it at the door with surprising force for someone who’s still horizontal. It rebounds loudly off the wood and lands with a thud on the patterned carpet. 

And Alfie’s up now, ain’t he? Tightening the robe around his waist as he prepares to give the little shit outside a piece of his mind. He wrenches the door open, entirely unprepared for the blinding flash that burns his sleep-shy retinas. He slams the door on the little cunt’s forearm before his brain catches up with what’s happening. 

A smartphone lands beside his feet, separated from its yelping owner by the hastily re-locked door. Alfie stoops to admire the over-exposed and deeply unflattering photograph of himself that stares back from the screen.

“Little fucker,” he mumbles, kicking the phone into the bathroom.

“Press,” Tommy whispers from the bed. He’s laid on his back, forearm draped over both eyes, looking thoroughly _done_ with a day that hasn’t yet properly started. Alfie can appreciate the sentiment.

“Fuck me, didn’t take ‘em long, did it?” 

“He probably tipped ‘em off.” Tommy's voice undulates like it’s being dragged out of ‘im over corrugated iron. 

"For fuck’s sake stop talking,” Alfie says, climbing back into bed. He rubs at his eyes until they're covered in white flashes that remain long after he’s opened them. It gives him the strange sense that Tommy is far away, across a field or a river perhaps, with the sun glaring so bright behind him that Alfie can’t quite make 'im out.

Slowly, the picture focuses, and it ain’t a pretty one. The whites of Tommy’s eyes have gone crimson, in sympathy with the vivid ligature mark around his neck. He wouldn’t look out of place as a wax model in the London Dungeons. 

Alfie reaches over to cup Tommy’s face, which for some reason startles Tommy, halts his scratchy breathing. Three, four seconds pass before his chest deflates and his pupils return to normal size. And there it is again, that invisible bridge between them, as delicate as spun sugar and too fragile to carry words. Tommy wraps his hand around Alfie’s wrist, holding it to his cheek. They stare at each other in silence until Alfie can see nothing but his own thoughts hurtling down a black tunnel towards Campbell’s painful death and a future in which Tommy will arch willingly against him and bare his unblemished neck to be kissed and sucked and—

“M’thirsty,” Tommy rasps. 

“Right, yeah,” Alfie says, blinking himself back to the present. 

He uncaps the water from his bedside cabinet and passes it over. As soon as Tommy tries to swallow it’s obvious something’s wrong: his throat clicks, he splutters and there's an unnatural gurgling sound. 

“Fuck, you need a hospital, mate.” 

Tommy shakes his head, one hand to his neck.

“It’s bad enough you can’t talk, but you can’t fuckin’ _swallow_ either. I’m calling an ambulance.”

“No,” Tommy wheezes, “no ambulance.”

“Fuck’s sake” — Alfie gets out of bed — "you're a fucking liability. Knew I shouldn't have listened last night." He needs to focus, get dressed, find his bloody keys.

He stomps into the bathroom to piss, trying not to catch sight of himself in the mirror. His own black eyes have blossomed into glorious technicolour.

He wants to dial 999, but can’t bring himself to do it, to do anything against Tommy’s wishes. He starts googling strangulation instead, wondering whether he could get his mate, Doc, to have a look. Ridiculous idea, Schmuel was struck off years ago; ain’t much good for anything more than overdose emergencies. 

Alfie quickly realises that last night's clothes are damp and covered in god-knows-what. Sickening as it is, he pulls a dark checked shirt and chinos out of what must be Campbell's bag. He rolls the trouser hems up a few times — they’ll have to fuckin' do.

“Right, here’s the plan," he says, rounding the corner towards the bed. He fully intends to lay down the law, only Tommy is busy scribbling into a small hotel-branded notepad. He tears off the first sheet and thrusts it at Alfie, immediately scrawling another … and another … handing each one over with increasing impatience.

_Press_ _everywhere_ , the first note says, double underlined.

_Call Ada. Make her sign over the Foundation to May Carleton._ _Today_ _._

_All other business — Polly._ _Not Michael._

Alfie reads each note in turn and shakes his head. Fuckin' idiot, worrying about business at a time like this.

“Is this what you're bloody like? You need help, mate” he says, throwing the papers back onto Tommy’s lap.

 _“_ This first! _”_ Tommy says. It’s half whisper, half yell and sends him doubling over into a wheezing cough that lasts so long it has Alfie’s heart hammering in panic. 

"Oh fuck me that really ain't funny," he says when Tommy finally stops. "Are you tryin'a kill me or what?" 

Tommy, slumped against the headboard, opens his eyes a sliver, only to jab viciously at the abandoned notes on his knees.

“Tommy, this can wait. He’s in bleedin’ custody, ain't he? And if that Carleton woman is even _half_ right then he has a lot more to answer for than” — Alfie waves his hand at Tommy — “than _this_.”

Tommy looks to the ceiling and sighs, as if he were some ancient sage gifted with second sight being forced to deal with an imbecile. He tries to say something else, but thinks better of it and starts scribbling once more: 

_He’ll take me with him. He’ll take everything._

“Alright. Alright,” Alfie says, snatching the latest note from Tommy’s hand. Whether Campbell has something on Tommy or this is pure paranoia seems a moot point under the circumstances. 

Tommy scribbles again:

_Make these calls. Then you can drive me._

“Oh, so I can drive you, can I?” Alfie could almost laugh, except nothing is actually funny. “How very gracious of you, allowing me to be your chauffeur as well as your secretary.”

Tommy looks at him with more than a hint of the intimidating glare he wore yesterday in the kitchens — it was a tad more effective before the eyebags and the bruises. Alfie straightens his face. “Okay. But fifteen minutes max, and if you do that choking thing again I'll carry you out myself.”

It’s the most bizarre fifteen minutes Alfie’s spent in a long time. He relays Tommy’s messages as brusquely as possible — plus several more scribbled mid-conversation — and tells the bewildered sister to meet them at Newham Hospital. 

Tommy glares knives at ‘im for that, ungrateful little shit.

***

An hour later Alfie’s sat outside the hospital in his van, feeling more than slightly shaky. It didn't exactly go smoothly. He kicked up a total shitstorm when the triage nurse looked at Tommy and informed them it would likely be a minimum three hour wait. The state of Alfie's own bruised eyes might not 'ave helped, granted, probably looked like they'd been in some sort of pub brawl, but the miserable cow seemed intent on not listening to reason. Not usin’ her own two eyes. 

Thankfully, Tommy took matters into his own hands, falling unconscious and sliding off the chair Alfie’d so carefully deposited 'im on before pissing himself all over the floor of A & E.

A far more like-minded team of medics appeared after that, whisking him off with an appropriate (if alarming) sense of urgency. Unfortunately, their like-mindedness hadn’t extended to preventing Alfie being escorted from the building for threatening behaviour. 

He rests his head on the steering wheel, reminding himself that Tommy is in the best place, whilst channeling his subdued rage into imagining the most elaborate and painful ways he will maim Chester Campbell if he ever sets eyes on ‘im again. A sharp knock at the window disturbs this dark reverie. He shouldn’t be surprised; if there’s one lesson he’s learned in life it’s that things can _always_ get worse. 

“Mr Solomons?” 

Alfie sits up.

“Would you kindly open this door, sir. You are under arrest—"

_Oh you are havin' a fuckin’ laugh, he only swore at the bloody nurse; didn't even kick anything._

“— for assaulting a senior police officer. You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.” 

The familiar words meld into the background as Alfie resigns himself to what is obviously the universe’s latest idea of a joke. He’s being pressed into the back of a police car by a tanned, thick-set copper when he spots Ada stepping out of a brand-new Jag, right outside the entrance. 

“You can’t park there, madam,” shouts a warden in a yellow jacket. 

“Just leave the ticket under the wipers,” she yells as she clatters up the steps.

"That's our Ada,” says a coarse voice from the back seat of the police car. There sits Arthur Shelby, hungover as hell. 

_Yep_ , Alfie thinks as he sinks down beside him. Things can _always_ get worse.

***

Three months later, Alfie can still remember how fucking angry he’d been. At the sheer audacity of Campbell to go after him and Arthur. At Tommy for not pressing charges and letting Campbell walk free.

Not for long as it turned out; not once Edward and thirteen other lads lined up to tell their tales of woe. None of them had any idea of the scale of the scandal building — not even Tommy, Alfie guessed. Although no one could say that for sure, because Tommy had discharged himself from hospital in less than 24 hours and vanished into thin air. Disappeared without a word to anyone.

The charges against Alfie and Arthur miraculously disappeared as, over the course of the next few weeks, the scandal blew wide open:

_Senior Police Officer accused of serial sex abuse_

_Scotland Yard in sex-for-sentences scandal_

It didn’t take long for interest to extend from Campbell — the high-flying, ex-public-school boy tipped to be the first gay head of the Met Police — to Tommy, his handsome, roguish boyfriend. Alfie learnt more about Tommy from the tabloids than he had any right to know. 

As the weeks ticked by the tone of coverage changed from salacious to sympathetic, a disconcerting switch in light of Tommy’s continued absence. He became the rags-to-riches philanthropist engaged to a predatory monster (the backstory an added bonus for filling column inches — a beautiful girlfriend who took her own life, the same as Tommy’s mother).

It's gone on so long now that the hacks are itching for an ending, something tragically poetic, you can almost hear their pens scratching in anticipation of Tommy’s demise.

Alfie has tried to get on with his life. He feels unusually impotent. No one knows he’s linked to the case, and he needs to keep it that way. Don’t mean he ain’t desperate for news of Tommy, desperate to know he's okay. Problem is, he’s at the back of a very long queue — behind the police, the entire Shelby family, their lawyers and every damn paparazzo in London. He tries not to hold out hope, knows that Tommy, wherever he is, may well want nothing to do with him after everything that’s happened. After that last fucked-up session in his playroom. Knowing the extent of Campbell’s abuse only makes Alfie’s guilt worse.

Ironically, the underground playroom is exactly where he heads when he wants to forget about everything … Ed and Campbell and how Tommy might be lying frozen in some ditch. He’s kept only a couple of regulars, guys he knows well enough to trust himself with. Guys like James. Polite, good-looking, kinky as hell.

It’s the Friday before Christmas, and it’s been a good session. More than good, actually; it’s the first time they've got past the knuckles. There’s something special about fisting a sub, the trust it takes to get to that point, and the deep, other-worldly groan that accompanies a body accepting a hand. 

Alfie's still warm with satisfaction as he walks out to his car; the sense of foreboding that’s shadowed him these past few months hasn’t yet swept back in. It’s bloody cold in the carpark, mind, and the air feels strangely charged, as if something has recently moved. He stops dead, scanning the darkness. The only light is a hazy phosphorescence that leaks through glassless slits high up in the walls. James’ car has long-since gone and there are no others. He hits the unlock button on his key-fob and, in the brief _blink blink_ afforded by his side-lights, spots a hooded figure lurking behind a concrete pillar. 

It takes three rapid strides to cross the space and slam the little shit against his car window — muscles against bones against glass. Alfie’s breathing hard, rigid with adrenaline, but when the face inside the hood comes into focus his limbs lose all their strength.

“Fuck me,” he says. “You crazy mother-fucking …shit. Shit." _Calm down. He’s alright. He ain’t fuckin' dead._ "Are you _tryin'_ to get your head kicked in?" _Okay that wasn’t calm. He looks like utter shit. And what the fuck is he doing here of all the fuckin' places?_ “Do you have any idea how many people are looking for you?” 

“Yes,” Tommy answers. His face betrays none of the conflicting emotions currently flooding Alfie.

“Everyone in England wants to know where you are, mate.”

Tommy gives him a cold look. “Except you, apparently.” 

“What the …? What's that supposed to mean?” He should probably let go of Tommy’s coat, but his brain and his body don’t seem to be on speaking terms at the moment. “Of course I fuckin’ wanted ... what did you expect me to do? Send out a private search party? Alert the friggin’ coast guard?”

He needs to get a grip of 'imself, stop spinning from relief to aggression like he's on a ruddy waltzer and assess the situation. He can make out several days’ worth of stubble beneath the shadow of Tommy’s hood. His hair drips into his eyes (strange, it don’t seem to be raining). Dull light catches in his pupils and glints like a blade, quickly sheathed. He looks dangerous. Unhinged.

"What are you doing here, Tommy?” Alfie keeps his voice soft this time, but his fists curl tighter into Tommy’s oversized coat. 

“Thought maybe you'd let me in.” 

“In there?” Alfie nods to the locked playroom.

“Yeah.” Tommy sniffs. "Why not, eh?" His sharp face looks oddly defiant.

"Fucks sake, Tommy. Why not? Why _fuckin’_ not? Are you mad?” He needs to stop asking questions, just get him in the car _._ “Look at the fuckin' state of you." There’s whiskey on his breath, no doubt, and a distance to his glare. "How much have you drunk?”

Tommy smirks. “Nowhere near enough.”

Alfie loosens his grip, letting Tommy slump inside his anorak. 

“Tommy?” he says, more gently. "Have you taken anything else?"

"Fuck off." He fumbles for a moment, pulling cigarettes from his pocket. The packet’s obviously wet; he stares at the sodden mess as if this comes as a surprise. 

"Painkillers?"

"Haven't taken 'em for months." 

“Right,” Alfie says. “You sure about that?”

“Yes, I’m bloody sure about that.” His eyes bore into Alfie like this is an important point. “Wasn’t even taking them before that … that fucking … session.” He gestures crossly towards the playroom again, dropping his useless fags to the floor, kicking them away in fury. 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Alfie’s heart is thumping hard. He remembers every damn stroke of that cane.

“It means it was one of his games.”

“What? What the hell? And you _let_ him? You let _me_ …” 

Tommy shrugs half-heartedly.

“No. No, that ain’t good enough. Why the fuck didn’t you _say_ something?”

“No point. He wanted me hurt. He’d have done far worse himself.” He levels a stare at Alfie that _dares_ him to fucking argue, mouth twitching into a curl, like he’s pleased with this revelation; amused by Alfie's shock. 

“It’s not fuckin’ funny, Tommy.” Alfie feels fury rising. His mind ticks back to that night. Campbell producing the little bottle, rattling it in the air; the smug, self satisfied look on his face as Tommy counted the pills. "Why?" he asks. "Why would you fuckin' let him?"

Alfie knows he can be intimidating, knows that he's squaring up. He punctuates his fury with a pointed finger, but Tommy doesn't shrink back.

"Better that you did it." He sounds almost bored as he says it.

Alfie feels sick. Tricked. Like an imbecile, to have made himself a pawn in that bastard’s sick game. “Consent works two ways. I did not _consent_ to that.”

“Consent?” Tommy says, and this time he snorts, eyebrows jumping up. “That’s a very pretty word.”

“It ain’t pretty, Tommy. It’s _fundamental_. I break men in that room. Make them tremble and whimper and weep for their fuckin' mothers.” Alfie can feel his own limbs shaking. With fury, or panic, maybe. 

"And you _did,”_ Tommy yells _,_ switching from nonchalance to fury with alarming dexterity. “You did. You fucking broke me. While he fucking-well _watched_."

"Because I thought that’s what you wanted!" 

Tommy shakes his head. "What difference does that make? You get off on hurting people."

_They ain’t Tommy’s words; they’re Campbell’s. But they bruise all the same._

"Because they _ask_ me to," Alfie shouts. "They break the rules I set because they _want_ the fucking consequences. Because whatever it is they can’t say out loud they can sob out into a towel. In there” — he points to the room — “where they’re s’posed to be fuckin' safe."

He can't read Tommy's reactions; he's too still inside that hood, but Alfie’s on a roll now and intends to make his point.

"I did _not_ consent to hurting someone who didn't fucking want it." He shouldn't blame Tommy. He doesn’t . But he’s angry all the same. “And you” — he jabs his finger at Tommy’s chest — “your silence made me complicit in that _bastard’s_ fucked up games.” 

He’s too hot. Too aware of the blood in his veins. "You let me cane you … like that … let me punish you when you … _fuck_ … when you didn’t want it. Didn't deserve it.”

“We don’t get what we deserve, do we?”

_No, we don’t. Or that cunt would be six feet under. And maybe Alfie too._

"Why the fuck did you come ‘ere, Tommy? Hmm?" He wants to cross his arms, but he forces them to hang loose. 

"Do you really not know?"

"No. Don’t think I do. Don’t think I know anyth—"

Tommy lunges at him and kisses him full on the mouth. There's no preamble, no moment of question, just hard lips, hard hands and a thud as Alfie’s head hits the concrete pillar. He's stunned for a long moment, can feel Tommy’s rage licking into him, and he lets it. Lets the storm fill his chest and weaken his limbs some more. He needs space. Needs air. He never wants air again.

“I fuckin’ _hate_ you,” Tommy says, teeth clenched against Alfie’s jaw.

“Yeah?” he says, “you angry?” 

"Yeah, I fuckin’ am." Tommy’s hands wind into Alfie’s lapels, pulling him closer still. 

“Good. Bout fuckin' time." _So help him, he’s hard as hell._

Tommy slams him against the pillar, surprisingly strong as he squares up, face pinched into a grimace. His lips are pulled tight against his teeth as if he might bite Alfie’s ear off, or simply dissolve into tears. He looks fuckin’ feral, truth be told, and Alfie sees the danger, but his own blood’s roaring in his ears and drowning out his sense.

“You wanna hit me, Tommy? Wanna even the score?” He raises his arms out wide in invitation. “Come on, do it. Hit me.”

Tommy jolts him again. “I don’t wanna hit you, Solomons.”

“No? Cause it bloody well looks like you do.”

"No. I wanna fuck you."

The world stops for a second. Bile rises in Alfie’s throat, a vicious concoction of excitement and dread that takes away his voice. Not that Tommy’s waiting for an answer; his hands are already at Alfie’s belt, swinging him by the waistband till he’s face down on the car. He doesn’t put up much fight as his jeans are wrestled down. Figures he can take it. Figures Tommy’s owed. 

There’s a moment of frantic fumbling: nails down his thighs, the sound of spit, and Tommy fucks into him cruelly with a vicious snap of hips. 

Alfie yelps, can’t fuckin’ help it, and flattens his hands on the bonnet. It’s awkward and not as deep as it could be — too much clothing in the way — but Tommy ain’t holding anything back. Fingers dig into Alfie’s biceps like teeth holding him still. A slap of ice-cold skin accompanies every hot stab of pain. He’s pretty sure he ain’t the true target of this anger, but that thought don’t help at all as Tommy builds up the pace.

“Don’t move, just breathe. Remember?” Tommy says over his shoulder. “Let your body open. You’ll get used to the pain.” 

Alfie winces at his own words played back so callously. He grits his teeth and gasps, watching his own harsh breaths wet the paintwork in rhythmic vapour blooms. 

It's hard and fuckin' relentless but he tells himself to surrender to it, thinks he almost might, when Tommy starts to slow. The weight above him slumps and a heavy hand slams onto the bonnet next to Alfie’s face.

“You did make me feel safe,” Tommy says. “For all the good it did me.” His voice sounds strained, breaths turning shivery… like he’s planning on giving up … and somewhere in Alfie’s degenerate brain he hears himself rasping, _no_.

“Oh no you don’t. Don’t you fuckin’ _dare_ stop now.” His own voice sounds thick in the cold night air. He reaches back and grabs a handful of Tommy’s damp hair, pulling him downwards. “You finish what you started.”

Tommy lets out a pitiful sound, low-pitched and shaky; his head falls further forward until it rests on Alfie's shoulder. And Alfie knows he's a little deranged, right, has been told as much once or twice. Because no one, taken cold and hard, goes out of their way to rile the bloke whose cock is up their arse. Except that's exactly what he's about to do. He breathes through the respite, closes his eyes, and braces himself for what’s to come, with all the certainty of fury.

"I know that ain’t all you got. I watched you on that cross." 

Tommy's weight sinks further till he’s laid across Alfie’s back. He grinds weakly, mouth close to Alfie’s neck. 

"I watched him watching you. No one lasts more than half an hour. Ever." 

Tommy makes a pathetic sound. This could all be over now. Finished. But for reasons best examined much later, or never, Alfie is set on his course.

"Were meant to drop the ball,” he rasps. “That was the whole fuckin' point. But _you_ , you stoic little cunt, you just kept going, didn’tcha?”

A whine of breath warms Alfie’s ear, but Tommy doesn’t move. 

“So I just left you up there … watched you fuckin’ struggle."

Tommy shifts his hips at that, a half-hearted little shunt. That's it, he's nearly got 'im.

"And boy did you fuckin’ struggle” — Alfie remembers every second, remembers being mesmerised. As was Campbell, although possibly for entirely different reasons _—_ “for ninety minutes. Makin’ all them pretty little sounds."

That earns him a proper thrust again and an indignant-sounding wheeze. That’s good. He wants the fucker to take what he’s owed, not fall apart. 

“Still. I expect he looked after you, hmm? Told you how perfect you were" — another thrust, slow but thorough — “how much those desperate little breaths” — another, _fuck —_ “turned him on” — another, _oh, fucking hell_ — “the way you hung your head” — _urgh_ — “sweat was pouring down you —” 

"Fuck off!"

"—till you glistened like a—"

"Shut the _fuck_ up.” Tommy slams in properly. Hard. “You know" — another slam — "he fucking” — again — “didn't." 

“No?” He can feel Tommy’s rage ramping up, but he’s clearly lost his mind ‘cause he can’t seem to shut his fuckin’ mouth even though he knows he’s about to pay for it. “Cause I gotta tell you, mate," — slam — "the way you looked when you started shaking” — _fuck_ — “tremblin’ like a foal. It was something else ...”

“You really want to be split in half, eh?” Tommy’s pushed himself up again, hands wrapped in the back of Alfie’s overshirt. His knuckles dig in painfully, which should be the least of Alfie’s worries, but for some reason is the one detail that absolutely _incenses_ him.

“Yeah. Maybe I fuckin’ do.” 

“You fucked-up … fucking cunt.”

Tommy drives into him hard and fast, no shadow of restraint, and Alfie can hardly begrudge it, not when he’s goaded ‘im on. The pain ain't as bad as before, but there’s no pleasure in it either; every few seconds a demeaning gurgle makes its way out of his throat. It’s a lot … it’s too much … he desperately needs it to stop. 

And it does. Tommy pulls back, pulls out unexpectedly, and takes a long, harsh breath; several breaths. Alfie, fool that he is, slackens with impending relief.

It’s a mistake.

Tommy spreads his arsecheeks wide, like a butcher jointing meat, and spits twice at his hole. Alfie’s panting, clenching around the sting, and Tommy’s stood there watching 'im; that thought renews Alfie's fury, makes his face flame burning hot. The thrust that follows is almost gentle — long and achingly slow — but it slices so much deeper than before that Alfie flushes with panic. _He can’t take it like this … he’s done for_ … “oh _fuuuuck_ , Tommy, _hnnnn—_ ”

“Shut the fuck up and take it.” 

_I can’t,_ he wants to say. But he does. Of course he does. He grits his teeth, listens to distant sirens and takes every slow, vehement stroke. Because Tommy needs him to; because there’s nowhere else to go. Because his brain has turned to static and he’d do anything for this man. It’s a terrifying thought, but not one he has long to ponder because Tommy, iron-hard inside him, has changed the pace again, added a deep probing jab at the bottom of every stroke. 

“Jesus fucking Christ _.”_ Alfie wants to tear out his own beard. “You sadistic fucking bastard.” His spittle joins the wet breaths spattering the paintwork.

Tommy’s hips keep grinding, chasing his release like he's damn-well owed, like he couldn’t give a shit what the cost might be to Alfie. Thank fuck it isn’t long until he's coming in hot, sluggish pulses. 

“Takes one to know one, eh?” he says, as he finally pulls out. 

And Alfie, right, he laughs. 

Groans. 

Straightens himself up, wincing at the hot gush as he buttons up his jeans. 

His body knows what’s happening — aquaints itself with the tenderness, the long-forgotten sting. Needs a goddamn minute though, to figure out his head. Why he’s staring at Tommy with something close to admiration.

“I should never have come,” Tommy says. He clears his throat, hands shaking as he fastens his flies.

“Bit late for that, innit, when you’re running down my thigh.”

Tommy wipes his mouth on his sleeve and stumbles towards the exit, looking for all the world like _he’s_ the one who’s just been fucked halfway to Timbuktu. _Shit_ , Alfie didn’t put himself through that to watch 'im walk away. 

“Tommy,” he calls. “Stop."

Tommy keeps on walking.

"Fuck's sake. At least spare me the indignity of coming after you.” 

That makes him halt at least, but he doesn’t turn around. 

“I’m glad you came,” Alfie says. “Despite … whatever that was. Which may well make me fuckin' insane, but there you have it.” 

“I didn’t mean to be complicit. In any of it. I didn’t _know_.” 

“How could you?” Alfie says. 

"Should’ve seen the signs. So _fuckin’_ blind … conceited …” 

“Did he, Tommy, is that how he—?” 

“He’s taken everything,” Tommy snarls, spinning back towards Alfie. “She was terrified,” he jabs at the air, entire body hardening, “because of _me_ . Because I _let_ ‘im … I _let_ ’im ...” He swivels on one foot and wanders off again. “She wouldn't have … not with the … with the ...”

Alfie’s lost the thread entirely, but Tommy’s extremely agitated; he needs to get ‘im back.

“Look, you came ‘ere to feel safe, right? I got somewhere safe you—”

“I fuckin’ _know_ , it was him,” Tommy shouts. “The pregnancy and the fucking _… fuck_ …” He holds his head for a moment as though he’s lost his train of thought. When he looks up there’s a cold detachment to ‘im, like he's switched fucking channels. 

“There’s no right of appeal against an inquest. Did you know that?” He squints accusingly, as if Alfie himself were responsible for this particular point of law.

"Why don't you get in the car, hmm? Explain it from the start.”

“No point. That’s the beauty.” He shakes his head. “Jury’ll never convict ‘im.”

Alfie don’t know what the hell Tommy’s talking about. As far as he's heard from Ed (which, to be fair, is more than he should 'ave), the evidence stacked against Campbell sounds pretty damn conclusive.

"Can’t prove a thing. Nothing. Because I fucking cut her down.” Tommy shivers, spit flying as he mutters to himself, face as translucent as glass. He looks like a careless touch might splinter ‘im into a thousand tiny pieces. Fragile but fucking dangerous. Like a hand grenade with the pin out. Alfie’s shivering himself, and it ain’t just from the cold.

“It’s late, and it’s fuckin’ freezing. Just sit in the car for a bit — tell me from the beginning."

Tommy shakes his head. "Best off without me. I should've ... I break everything I touch."

"You gave it your best shot, sweetheart, but I ain’t broken yet. Granted, I might not sit down tomorrow … but nothing time won’t mend."

Tommy looks up, confused. Like he’s completely forgotten the last half hour. It’s proper disconcerting.

"Let me drop you off somewhere," Alfie says. He has precisely zero intention of dropping Tommy anywhere in this state, but he’s not above deception. “Where’ve you been hiding all these weeks?”

“Found a castle,” Tommy says. 

“Fuck me, course you ‘ave. Right,” _— authority it is then —_ “get in the goddamn car.” 

He opens the passenger door and holds it like an irritable chauffeur. If Tommy refuses he’s gonna bundle him in, shrapnel wounds be damned. Tommy blinks at 'im slowly, then gets in without argument. Alfie gets in the driver’s side and locks the doors before either of them changes their minds. 

There’s no more talk of castles, or anywhere else Tommy might be staying, so Alfie heads for home. Tommy leans his head on the passenger window and neither of them speaks. Alfie concentrates on the road, on the garish plastic glow of chicken restaurants and those peculiar convenience shops that exist to serve rizlas and bleach and Czech lager to loners at 3am. Every few seconds he steals a glance at Tommy, and a guilty weight grows in his chest — like he’s stolen something rare and precious that he knows is too dangerous to keep. 

***

It’s nearly midnight when they arrive at Alfie's terraced house. Everything’s starting to feel far more real. They’ll have to ring the family, let ‘em know Tommy’s safe. The police’ll have to be told, of course, but that can wait till tomorrow.

“It ain’t no castle,” he warns. _Strange, the lights are on._ He unlocks the door and is greeted by the sweet smell of baking and a very familiar voice.

“It’s only me, darling! Didn’t want to startle you.” 

His mother appears in the narrow hallway in a bright purple tracksuit and full make-up. She’s wearing his oven gloves, the ones shaped like sharks, which she places either side of his face as she drags him down for a kiss. “I’m sorry. There's been a gas leak at the flat. They wouldn't even let me back in! I tried calling, but you didn’t answer, so I used my key. Hope you don’t mind.” 

"No, s'fine, course, Mum.” _Oh fuck, how’s he gonna explain this? Or preferably, not explain at all._ “You're okay though, right?" 

"Oh, yes, perfectly fine.” She lowers her voice to a whisper, “Between you and me, I think it’s that man from 49… he’s a little cuckoo … always leaving something on. Anyway, I lit the fire and cooked your favourite honey cake, can't have you coming back to a cold house on a night like this.”

“Mum, you didn’t have to …”

“Shht!” She clicks at him and pats his stomach. “Looks like I’m just in time; you’ve lost more weight, I see.” Alfie closes his eyes, waits for her to stop fussing and notice the elephant in the room. Although _bedraggled cat_ would perhaps be a more fitting description for Tommy at this moment. 

“Oh, but I'm disturbing you, darling!" She can barely keep the glee out of her voice as she looks over Alfie’s shoulder, one shark-gloved hand across her chest. 

Alfie takes a deep breath and turns to introduce them. “Mum, this is Tommy. Tommy, my mum.” 

He waits for her reaction. 

"Tommy?" She repeats, looking at Alfie as if to confirm. Clearly she ain't forgotten the name or the conversation.

"Yes, _that_ Tommy," Alfie sighs. 

“O da, ochen nedovden,” she says under her breath before flicking the oven glove at her son and tutting. “Well let him in, Alfred. He looks absolutely frozen.”

“I shouldn’t be here,” Tommy mumbles. “I need to go.”

“Go where, eh?” Alfie says as he reaches behind him to close the door. He can’t keep the frustration out of his voice; he’s tired and leaking come, and his mum's here for fuck’s sake.

“My sister,” Tommy says with a worrying surge of energy, as if this is a revolutionary idea that has, this second, become available to ‘im. “I’ll go to Ada’s”

“And wake her up in the middle of the night? Don’t she ‘ave a kid?”

“S’fine. She’ll understand.”

“She’ll understand just as well in the morning, mate. There’s even a chance — once you’ve slept and put on some clean clothes — that you won’t scare her half to death.” 

Tommy sweeps a lick of hair off his face. His movements are too slow, like his limbs are underwater, but his eyes dart quickly around the softly-lit hallway from door to door to door. 

Alfie needs to get ‘im upstairs before he makes a break for it or says anything odd. “Right, shower or bath?” 

Tommy blinks and frowns.

“Fine, shower,” Alfie answers for him. He tries not to sound exasperated, but he’s desperate to wash himself too. “Shoes off, come on,” he says.

Tommy merely stares into the living room as if it’s another dimension. 

“Tommy?” he tries again.

Before he knows it, his mum steps round him and tugs at Tommy’s coat. The zip gets caught at the bottom. She tuts and hisses as she tries to free it before giving up and working the coat down over Tommy’s shoulders, then his soaked jeans, bending to help him step out of it. And Tommy just fuckin’ _lets_ her. Like he's eight or nine years old. Beneath the coat, he’s naked, his skin the same bluish-white as the hospital-tag round his wrist. And maybe Alfie's regressed an’all, because all he can do is stare, like he ain’t a bleedin’ adult, like someone else has a better idea of what the fuck’s going on. 

His mum looks at him as if Tommy’s state is almost certainly his fault.

Alfie shakes his head. He can’t believe this is the same bloke who pinned him to his car and fucked … and fucked … and _fuck_ ... he wants to crumple over … wants to slap Tommy for his cruelty. Wants to hold him close and tell ‘im it’s okay. What have they done to each other? 

“Take him upstairs,” his mum says. “I’ll make you both some tea.” 

  
  


An hour later they’re sat in the living room, absorbing the last of the fire’s warmth. Tommy’s said nothing since he got out of the shower and Alfie ain’t dared to ask. Dressed in Alfie’s too-large clothes, he looks crooked and grey and entirely too hairy. 

“You know who he is?” Alfie’s mum says, nodding at the corner of the sofa where Tommy has slumped to sleep. 

“Of course I know who he is,” Alfie whispers. 

“That’s Thomas Shelby,” she continues, as if she doesn’t believe him.

“That’s Tommy,” Alfie sighs. “And keep your voice down. Please.” 

“Oh he won’t be waking any time soon, not with the slug of brandy I slipped into his tea.”

Alfie rests his head in his hands. He’s so fucking tired, and tender, he just wants to crawl into bed. His mum, on the contrary, is buzzing with energy, fishing a glossy magazine from her giant handbag. When she’s found the page she wants, she folds it out onto the coffee table. 

“That’s him!” she says, pointing to a page full of pictures with the headline _Missing Magnate_. 

“I _know_ mum." He glances down to appease her, but finds he can’t look away. One picture stands out from the rest: Tommy looking bashful, cheeks rounded in mirth. The cause of the smile is a beautiful blonde: _Grace Burgess,_ _Shelby’s one-time fiancee and heiress to the textile fortune, who tragically took her own life_. Alfie’s read about her before of course, but it makes something deep in him ache.

His mum’s hand slides over the table and rests on his own. “I can see why you’ve fallen so hard.”

“I haven’t _fallen,_ ” he scoffs.

“He’s just your type, darling — beautiful, but haunted.”

  
  


He don’t look haunted the next morning so much as half-fucking dead — splayed out horizontal on the sofa where Alfie left ‘im with a blanket and a cushion. Still, it’s not like Alfie looks much better. He hasn't slept, mind struggling to unravel how he went from fisting James to being fucked on his own car bonnet by a bloke he feared was dead. He’s less shaken than he probably should be by last night’s turn of events and more concerned with which of the many unsavoury topics he needs to tackle first. 

He puts down the mug of tea he’s made for Tommy and stands too close to the sofa — legs spread wide, arms folded. It's an unsubtle attempt to reassert his authority but it's no less effective for being so fucking obvious. Tommy wakes surprisingly slowly, eyes sweeping up Alfie's body till they’re looking up at his face. Alfie's stomach lurches as he takes in the view. Shame he's about to ruin it.

“I hate to ask this, mate,” he says, “but when did you last test clean?”

Tommy pulls himself upright and rests his head in his hands.

“‘Cause I don’t know where you’ve been or what you’ve been up to, but that _cunt_ fucked a lot of boys. And last night you fucked me.” 

Tommy sinks deeper into his own lap. “Shit. I haven’t … sorry …”

“Clinic opens at nine,” Alfie says. He’s about to leave the room when Tommy mumbles, 

“He always used protection.”

“What?”

“ … At the start,” Tommy sighs. “When it was me.”

“Right.” Alfie stores away that grim admission. “Well ... what a fuckin’ gent.” 

***

Tommy never does go home. Alfie drives him to his house, the one he shares with Campbell, but it’s obvious pretty quickly there are photographers everywhere. “Stay,” he says as he drives straight past and rounds the corner. “Until you’re back on your feet.” 

He can feel eyes boring into him, but Tommy don’t say a word.

“No strings attached,” Alfie continues. "Unless you'd rather stay with your family, of course."

"No," Tommy says quickly. He rubs his eyes aggressively and seems on the verge of saying something he then thinks better of. Alfie lets the silence hang.

“You’ve just taken us to the clinic,” Tommy says. “Because of what I did.”

"Yeah, well, not quite what I had planned for the day either.” Alfie sniffs and ploughs on. "At least you’ll be safe from the press, and anyone else you don't wanna see. Which I'm guessing, what with your recent elongated absence and reluctance to use a phone, is pretty much everyone.” 

Tommy clears his throat but still doesn’t give an answer. 

“They’ve probably wrecked your gaff anyway. Never known coppers turn a place over carefully if they can possibly avoid it.”

“Had your place turned over often?” Tommy says with a smirk.

“Oh what? You think you’re the only person here with a murky past? I'll 'ave you know I've got friends in some very low places, sweetheart.”

There’s a strangely comfortable silence for the rest of the journey home. 

His mum leaves a few days later, _thank Christ_ — once she’s confident her son isn’t about to be arrested for harbouring a fugitive. Once Tommy has rung his family and been to the police and met with his fearsome lawyer (now there is one lady Alfie would rather not meet in a darkened alley. Or a well-lit one for that matter). 

“Please be careful, _Solnyshko,”_ his mum says as she kisses him goodbye. “Of that boy, as well as yourself.”

“We’re not boys, Mum,” Alfie says, but knows she’s giving her blessing. 

“And you,” she says, turning to Tommy. “Remember what Tolstoy said” — Alfie rolls his eyes and cringes — “The two most powerful warriors are patience and _time_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for non-consensual sex, mentions of suicide, drugs etc. All the usual foe this fic!


End file.
